Wyt  TLibxavp 

Of  tf)C 

Umuersit  pot  i^orti)  Carolina 


(Enbotoeti  bp  Wtyt  dialectic 

ana 

•philanthropic  Societies! 


J 


Whirl  ier 

Child   1  ire   m  preset 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022229928 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  was  taken  out  on 
the  day  indicated  below: 


Lib.  lOM-Fe  '38 


\ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/childlifeinprosewhittier 


Child  Life  in  Prose. 


EDITED    BY 


JOHN   GUEEXLEAF   WHITT1ER 


HlttjStraUb. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

(Cbc  CltVicr^i&e  preps  iffamttriOge 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S73, 

BY    JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    CO., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 


"We  behold  a  child.  Who  is  it?  Whose  is  it?  What  is  it? 
It  is  in  the  centre  of  fantastic  light,  and  only  a  dim  revealed  form 
appears.  It  is  God's  own  child,  as  all  children  are.  The  blood 
of  Adam  and  Eve,  through  how  many  soever  channels  diverging, 
runs  in  its  veins ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  Eternal,  winch  blows 
everywhere,  lias  animated  it.  It  opens  its  eyes  upon  us,  stretches 
out  its  hands  to  us  as  all  children  do.  Can  you  love  it?  It  may 
he  heir  of  a  throne,  —  does  it  interest  you?  Or  of  a  milking- 
stool,  —  do  not  despise  it.  It  is  a  miracle  of  the  All- working;  it 
is  endowed  by  the  All-gifted.  Smile  upon  it,  it  will  a  smile  give 
back  again ;  prick  it,  it  will  cry.  Where  does  it  belong  ?  In 
what  zone  or  climate  ?  It  may  have  been  born  on  the  Thames  or 
the  Amazon,  the  Hoang-ho  or  the  Mississippi.  It  is  God's  child 
still,  and  its  mother's.  It  is  curiously  and  wonderfully  made. 
The  inspiration  of  the  Almighty  hath  given  it  understanding.  It 
will  look  after  God  by  how  many  soever  names  he  may  be  called  j 
it  will  seek  to  know  ;  it  will  long  to  be  loved  ;  it  will  sin  and  be 
miserable  ;  if  it  has  none  to  care  for  it,  it  will  die." 

Judd's  Margaret. 


A 


PREFACE. 


THE  unexpectedly  favorable  reception  of  the  poetical  compila- 
tion entitled  "  Child  Life  "  has  induced  its  publishers  to  call 
for  the  preparation  of  a  companion  volume  of  prose  stories  and 
sketches,  gathered,  like  the  former,  from  the  literature  of  widely 
separated  nationalities  and  periods.  Illness,  preoccupation,  and 
the  inertia  of  un  elastic  years  would  have  deterred  me  from  the 
undertaking,  but  for  the  assistance  which  I  have  had  from  the  lady 
whose  services  are  acknowledged  in  the  preface  to  "  Child  Life." 
I  beg  my  young  readers,  therefore,  to  understand  that  I  claim  httle 
credit  for  my  share  in  the  work,  since  whatever  merit  it  may  have 
is  largely  due  to  her  taste  and  judgment.  It  may  be  well  to  admit, 
in  the  outset,  that  the  book  is  as  much  for  child-lovers,  who  have 
not  outgrown  their  child-heartedness  in  becoming  mere  men  and 
women,  as  for  children  themselves ;  that  it  is  as  much  about  child- 
hood, as  for  it.  If  not  the  wisest,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  happiest 
people  in  the  world  are  those  who  still  retain  something  of  the 
child's  creative  faculty  of  imagination,  which  makes  atmosphere 
and  color,  sun  and  shadow,  and  boundless  horizons,  out  of  what 
seems  to  prosaic  wisdom  most  inadequate  material,  —  a  tuft  of  grass, 
a  mossy  rock,  the  rain-pools  of  a  passing  shower,  a  glimpse  of  sky 
and  cloud,  a  waft  of  west-wind,  a  bird's  flutter  and  song.  For  the 
child  is  always  something  of  a  poet ;  if  he  cannot  analyze,  like 
Wordsworth  and  Tennyson,  the  emotions  which  expand  his  being, 
even  as  the  fulness  of  life  bursts  open  the  petals  of  a  flower,  he 
finds  with  them  all  Xature  plastic  to  his  eye  and  hand.  The  soul 
of  genius  and  the  heart  of  childhood  are  one. 

Not  irreverently  has  Jean  Paul  said,   "  I  love  God  and  little 


vi  PREFACE. 

children.  Ye  stand  nearest  to  Him,  ye  little  ones."  From  the 
Infinite  Heart  a  sacred  Presence  has  gone  forth  and  idled  the  earth 
with  the  sweetness  of  immortal  infancy.  Not  once  in  history 
alone,  but  every  day  and  always,  Christ  sets  the  little  child  in  the 
midst  of  us  as  the  truest  reminder  of  himself,  teaching  us  the 
secret  of  happiness,  and  leading  us  into  the  kingdom  by  the  way 
of  humility  and  tenderness. 

In  truth,  all  the  sympathies  of  our  nature  combine  to  render 
childhood  an  object  of  powerful  interest.  Its  beauty,  innocence, 
dependence,  and  possibilities  of  destiny,  strongly  appeal  to  our  sen- 
sibilities, not  only  in  real  life,  but  in  fiction  and  poetry.  How 
sweetly,  amidst  the  questionable  personages  who  give  small  occa- 
sion of  respect  for  manhood  or  womanhood  as  they  waltz  and 
wander  through  the  story  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  rises  the  child-figure 
of  Mignon  !  How  we  turn  from  the  light  dames  and  faitliless  cava- 
liers of  Boccaccio  to  contemplate  his  exquisite  picture  of  the  little 
Florentine,  Beatrice,  that  fair  girl  of  eight  summers,  so  "  pretty  in 
her  childish  ways,  so  ladylike  and  pleasing,  with  her  delicate  fea- 
tures and  fair  proportions,  of  such  dignity  and  charm  of  manner  as 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a  little  angel !  "  And  of  all  the  creations  of 
her  illustrious  lover's  genius,  whether  in  the  world  of  mortals  or  in 
the  uninviting  splendors  of  his  Paradise,  what  is  there  so  beautiful 
as  the  glimpse  we  have  of  him  in  his  Vita  Nitova,  a  boy  of  nine 
years,  amidst  the  bloom  and  greenness  of  the  Spring  Festival  of 
Florence,  checking  his  noisy  merry-making  in  rapt  admiration  of 
the  little  Beatrice,  who  seemed  to  him  "  not  the  daughter  of  mortal 
man,  but  of  God  "  ]  Who  does  not  thank  John  Brown,  of  Edin- 
burgh, for  the  story  of  Marjorie  Fleming,  the  fascinating  child- 
woman,  lauglnng  beneath  the  plaid  of  Walter  Scott,  and  gathering 
at  her  feet  the  wit  and  genius  of  Scotland  1  The  labored  essays 
from  which  St.  Pierre  hoped  for  immortality,  his  philosophies,  senti- 
mentalisms,  and  theories  of  tides,  have  all  quietly  passed  into  the 
limbo  of  unreadable  things;  while  a  simple  story  of  childhood  keeps 
Ins  memory  green  as  the  tropic  island  in  which  the  scene  is  laid, 
and  his  lovely  creations  remain  to  walk  hand  in  hand  beneath  the 
palms  of  Mauritius  so  long  as  children  shall  be  born  and  the  hearts 


PREFACE.  vii 

of  youths  and  maidens  cleave  to  each  other.  If  the  after  story  of 
the  poet-king  and  warrior  of  Israel  sometimes  saddens  and  pains 
us,  who  does  not  love  to  think  of  him  as  a  shepherd  boy,  "  ruddy 
and  withal  of  a  beautiful  countenance,  and  goodly  to  look  upon," 
singing  to  his  flocks  on  the  hill-slopes  of  Bethlehem  1 

In  the  compilation  of  this  volume  the  chief  embarrassment  has 
arisen  from  the  very  richness  and  abundance  of  materials.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  the  limitations  prescribed  by  its  publishers  have 
compelled  the  omission  of  much  that,  in  point  of  merit,  may  com- 
pare favorably  with  the  selections.  Dickens's  great  family  of  ideal 
children,  Little  Nell,  Tiny  Tim,  and  the  Marchioness  ;  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe's  Eva  and  Topsy ;  George  MacDonald's  cpaaint  and 
charming  child-dreamers  ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  John  Brown's  Pet 
Marjorie,  —  are  only  a  few  of  the  pictures  for  which  no  place  has 
been  found.  The  book,  of  necessity,  but  imperfectly  reflects  that 
child-world  which  fortunately  is  always  about  us,  more  beautiful 
in  its  living  realities  than  it  has  ever  been  painted. 

It  has  been  my  wish  to  make  a  readable  book  of  such  literary 
merit  as  not  to  offend  the  cultivated  taste  of  parents,  while  it 
amused  their  children.  I  may  confess  in  this  connection,  that,  while 
aiming  at  simple  and  not  unhealthful  amusement,  I  have  been  glad 
to  find  the  light  tissue  of  these  selections  occasionally  shot  through 
with  threads  of  pious  or  moral  suggestion.  At  the  same  time,  I 
have  not  felt  it  right  to  sadden  my  child-readers  with  gloomy  narra- 
tives and  painful  reflections  upon  the  life  before  them.  The  les- 
sons taught  are  those  of  Love,  rather  than  Fear.  "  I  can  bear," 
said  Kichter,  "  to  look  upon  a  melancholy  man,  but  I  cannot  look 
upon  a  melancholy  child.  Fancy  a  butterfly  crawling  like  a  cater- 
pillar with  his  four  wings  pulled  off  !  " 

It  is  possible  that  the  language  and  thought  of  some  portions  of 
the  book  may  be  considered  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  class 
for  which  it  is  intended.  Admitting  that  there  may  be  truth  in 
the  objection,  I  believe  with  Coventry  Patmore,  in  his  preface  to  a 
child's  book,  that  the  charm  of  such  a  volume  is  increased,  rather 
than  lessened,  by  the  surmised  existence  of  an  unknown  amount 
of  power,  meaning,  and  beauty.     I  well  remember  how,  at  a  very 


viii  PREFACE. 

early  age,  the  solemn  organ-roll  of  Gray's  Elegy  and  the  lyric 
sweep  and  pathos  of  Cowper's  Lament  for  the  Royal  George  moved 
and  fascinated  me  with  a  sense  of  mystery  and  power  felt,  rather 
than  understood.  "  A  spirit  passed  before  my  face,  but  the  form 
thereof  was  not  discerned."  Freighted  with  unguessed  meanings, 
these  poems  spake  to  me,  in  an  unknown  tongue  indeed,  but, 
like  the  wind  in  the  pines  or  the  waves  on  the  beach,  awakening 
faint  echoes  and  responses,  and  vaguely  prophesying  of  wonders  yet 
to  be  revealed.  John  Woolman  tells  us,  in  his  autobiography,  that, 
when  a  small  child,  he  read  from  that  sacred  prose  poem,  the  Book 
of  Revelation,  which  has  so  perplexed  critics  and  commentators, 
these  words,  "  He  showed  me  a  river  of  the  waters  of  life  clear  as 
crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb,"  and 
that  his  mind  was  drawn  thereby  to  seek  after  that  wonderful 
purity,  and  that  the  place  where  he  sat  and  the  sweetness  of  that 
child-yearning  remained  still  fresh  in  his  memory  in  after  life. 
The  spirit  of  that  mystical  anthem  which  Milton  speaks  of  as  "a 
seven-fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs  and  harping  symphonies,"  hidden 
so  often  from  the  wise  and  prudent  students  of  the  letter,  was  felt, 
if  not  comprehended,  by  the  simple  heart  of  the  child. 

It  will  be  seen  that  a  considerable  portion  of  the  volume  is  devot- 
ed to  autobiographical  sketches  of  infancy  and  childhood.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  it  might  be  interesting  to  know  how  the  dim  gray  dawn 
and  golden  sunrise  of  life  looked  to  poets  and  philosophers  ;  and 
to  review  with  them  the  memories  upon  which  the  reflected  light 
of  their  genius  has  fallen. 

I  leave  the  little  collection,  not  without  some  misgivings,  to  the 
critical,  but  I  hope  not  unkindly,  regard  of  its  young  readers. 
They  will,  I  am  sure,  believe  me  when  I  tell  them  that  if  my  own 
paternal  claims,  like  those  of  Elia,  are  limited  to  "  dream  children," 
I  have  catered  for  the  real  ones  with  cordial  sympathy  and  tender 
solicitude  for  their  well-being  and  happiness. 

J.  G.  W. 

Amksburt,  1873. 


CONTENTS. 


STORIES    OF    CHILD    LIFE. 


Little  Annie's  Ramble  . 

Why  the  Cow  turned  her  Head 

The  Baby  of  the  Regiment  . 

Prudy  Parlin 

Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey  . 

The  Rainbow-Pilgrimage  . 

On  White  Island   . 

The  Cruise  of  the  Dolphin 

A  Young  Mahometan     . 

The  Little  Persian    . 

The  Boys'  Heaven  . 

Bessie's  Garden  .... 

How  the  Crickets  brought  Good 

Paul  and  Virginia     . 

Oeyvind  and  Marit 

.Hoots  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn 

Amrie  and  the  Geese    . 

The  Robins  .... 

The  Fish  I  did  n't  catch 

Little  Kate  Wordsworth 

How  Margery  wondered 

The  Nettle-Gatherer 

Little  Arthur's  Prayer 

Faith  and  her  Mother     . 

The  Open  Door 

The  Prince's  Visit 


.    Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
l  .  Abby  Morton  Diaz 

.     T.  W.  Higginson 

"  Sophie  May  "    . 
.     Helen  B.  Bostwick    . 

Grace  Greenwood 
.     C'elia  Thaxter  . 

T.  B.  Aldrich 
.     Mary  Lamb 

Juvenile  Miscellany 
.     L.  Maria  Child 

Caroline  S.  Whitmarsh 
Fortune    P.  J.  Staid 

Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierr 

Bjb'rnsterne  Bjbrnsen 

Charles  Pickens    . 
.     Berthold  Auerbach    . 

John  Woolman 
.    John  G.  Whittier     . 

Thomas  De  Qitincey 

Lucy  Larcom    . 

From  the  Swedish 

Thomas  Hughes 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phetys 
•     John  de  Liefde 

Horace  Scudder     . 


Pagb' 
13 

22 

27 

3S 

43 

54 

58 

64 

76 

81 

83 

87 

97 

101 

109 

119 

131 

135 

137 

142 

145 

149 

156 

161 

165 

167 


X  CONTENTS. 

FANCIES    OF    CHILD    LIFE. 

The  Hen  that  hatched  Ducks     .        .        .  Harriet  lieecher  Stowe      .  175 

Blunder Louise  E.  Clwllel         .  185 

Star-Dollars Grimm's  Household  Tales  192 

The  Immortal  Fountain    ....  L.  Maria  Child    .        .  193 

The  Bird's-Nest  in  the  Moon       .        .        .  New  England  Magazine    .  201 

Dream-Children  :   A  Revert    .        .        .  Charles  Lamb        .        .  '  204 

The  Ugly  Duckling Hans  Christian  Andersen  209 

The  Poet  and  his  Little  Daughter        .  Mary  Jloimlt        .        .  220 

The  Red  Flower Madame  I)e  Gasparin      .  226 

The  Story  without  an  End      .        .        .  German  of  Carove        .  229 


MEMORIES    OF    CHILD    LIFE. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen 253 

Madame  Michelet 262 

Jean  Paul  Richter 271 

Charles  Lamb 276 

Hugh  Miller 281 

Walter  Scott 286 

Frederick  Douglass 290 

Charles  Dickens 297 


STORIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE. 


STOEIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


oXKo 


LITTLE  ANNIE'S   EAMBLE. 


ING  -  DONG  !      Ding-dong  ! 
Ding-dong  ! 

The  town-crier  has  rung 
his  hell  at  a  distant  corner, 
and  little  Annie  stands  on 
her  father's  door-steps,  trying 
to  hear  what  the  man  with 
the  loud  voice  is  talking 
about.  Let  me  listen  too.  0,  he  is 
telling  the  people  that  an  elephant, 
and  a  Hon,  and  a  royal  tiger,  and  a 
horse  with  horns,  and  other  strange 
beasts  from  foreign  countries,  have 
come  to  town,  and  will  receive  all 
visitors  who  choose  to  wait  upon  them  !  Perhaps  little  Annie 
would  like  to  go.  Yes  ;  and  I  can  see  that  the  pretty  child  is 
weary  of  this  wide  and  pleasant  street,  with  the  green  trees  fling- 
ing their  shade  across  the  quiet  sunshine,  and  the  pavements  and 
the  sidewalks  all  as  clean  as  if  the  housemaid  had  just  swept  them 
with  her  broom.  She  feels  that  impulse  to  go  strolling  away  — 
that  longing  after  the  mystery  of  the  great  world  —  which  many 
children  feel,  and  which  I  felt  in  my  childhood.  Little  Annie 
shall  take  a  ramble  with  me.  See !  I  do  but  hold  out  my  hand, 
and,  like  some  bright  bird  in  the  sunny  air,  with  her  blue  silk 
frock  fluttering  upwards  from  her  white  pantalets,  she  comes 
bounding  on  tiptoe  across  the  street. 


14  CHILD   LIFE  IS  PROSE. 

Smooth  back  your  brown  curls,  Annie  ;  and  let  me  tie  on  your 
bonnet,  and  we  will  set  forth!  What  a  strange  couple  to  go  on 
their  rambles  together  !  One  walks  in  black  attire,  with  a  meas- 
ured step,  and  a  heavy  brow,  and  his  thoughtful  eyes  bent  down, 
while  the  gay  little  girl  trips  lightly  along,  as  if  she  were  forced  to 
keep  hold  of  my  hand,  lest  her  feet  should  dance  away  from  the 
earth.  Yet  there  is  sympathy  between  us.  If  I  pride  myself  on 
anything,  it  is  because  I  have  a  smile  that  children  love  ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  few  grown  ladies  that  could  entice  me 
from  the  side  of  little  Annie  ;  for  I  delight  to  let  my  mind  go 
hand  in  hand  with  the  mind  of  a  sinless  child.  So  come,  Annie ; 
but  if  I  moralize  as  we  go,  do  not  listen  to  me  ;  only  look  about 
you  and  be  merry  ! 

Now  we  turn  the  corner.  Here  are  hacks  with  two  horses,  and 
stage-coaches  with  four,  thundering  to  meet  each  other,  and  trucks 
and  carts  moving  at  a  slower  pace,  being  heavily  laden  with  bar- 
rels from  the  wharves  ;  and  here  are  rattling  gigs,  which  perhaps 
will  be  smashed  to  pieces  before  our  ecyes.  Hitherward,  also,  comes 
a  man  trundling  a  wheelbarrow  along  the  pavement.  Is  not  little 
Annie  afraid  of  such  a  tumult?  No  :  she  does  not  even  shrink 
closer  to  my  side,  but  passes  on  with  fearless  confidence,  —  a  happy 
child  amidst  a  great  throng  of  grown  people,  who  pay  the  same 
reverence  to  her  infancy  that  they  would  to  extreme  old  age. 
Nobody  jostles  her  ;  all  turn  aside  to  make  way  for  little  Annie  ; 
and,  what  is  most  singular,  she  appears  conscious  of  her  claim  to 
such  respect.  Now  her  eyes  brighten  with  pleasure  !  A  street 
musician  has  seated  himself  on  the  steps  of  yonder  church,  and 
pours  forth  his  strains  to  the  busy  town,  a  melody  that  has  gone 
astray  among  the  tramp  of  footsteps,  the  buzz  of  voices,  and  the 
war  of  passing  wheels.  Who  heeds  the  poor  organ-grinder  I  None 
but  myself  and  little  Annie,  whose  feet  begin  to  move  in  unison 
with  the  lively  tune,  as  if  she  were  loath  that  music  should  be 
wasted  without  a  dance.  But  where  would  Annie  find  a  partner? 
Some  have  the  gout  in  their  toes,  or  the  rheumatism  in  their  joints  ; 
some  are  stiff  with  age  ;  some  feeble  with  disease  ;  some  are  so  lean 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


15 


that  their  bones  would  rattle,  and  others  of  such  ponderous  size 
that  their  agility  would  crack  the  flagstones  ;  hut  many,  many  have 
leaden  feet,  because  their  hearts  are  far  heavier  than  lead.  It  is  a 
sad  thought  that  I  have  chanced  upon.  What  a  company  of 
dancers  should  we  be  1  For  I,  too,  am  a  gentleman  of  sober  foot- 
steps, and  therefore,  little  Annie,  let  us  walk  sedately  on. 


It  is  a  question  with  me,  whether  this  giddy  child  or  my  sage 
self  have  most  pleasure  in  looking  at  the  shop  windows.  We  love 
the  silks  of  sunny  hue,  that  glow  within  the  darkened  premises  of 
the  spruce  dry-goods'  men  ;  we  are  pleasantly  dazzled  by  the  bur- 
nished silver  and  the  chased  gold,  the  rings  of  wedlock  and  the 
costly  love-ornaments,  glistening  at  the  window  of  the  jeweller ; 
but  Annie,  more  than  I,  seeks  for  a  glimpse  of  her  passing  figure 


16  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

in  the  dusty  looking-glasses  at  the  hardware  stores.  All  that  is 
bright  and  gay  attracts  us  both. 

Here  is  a  shop  to  which  the  recollections  of  my  boyhood,  as  well 
as  present  partialities,  give  a  peculiar  magic.  How  delightful  to 
let  the  fancy  revel  on  the  dainties  of  a  confectioner ;  those  pies, 
with  such  white  and  flaky  paste,  their  contents  being  a  mystery, 
whether  rich  mince,  with  whole  plums  intermixed,  or  piquant 
apple,  delicately  rose-flavored  ;  those  cakes,  heart-shaped  or  round, 
piled  in  a  lofty  pyramid  ;  those  sweet  little  circlets,  sweetly  named 
kisses ;  those  dark,  majestic  masses,  fit  to  be  bridal  loaves  at  the 
wedding  of  an  heiress,  mountains  in  size,  their  summits  deeply 
snow-covered  with  sugar !  Then  the  mighty  treasures  of  sugar- 
plums, white  and  crimson  and  yellow,  in  large  glass  vases ;  and 
candy  of  all  varieties  ;  and  those  little  cockles,  or  whatever  they  are 
called,  much  prized  hy  children  for  their  sweetness,  and  more  for 
the  mottoes  which  they  enclose,  by  love-sick  maids  and  bachelors  ! 
0,  my  mouth  waters,  little  Annie,  and  so  doth  yours ;  but  we  will 
not  be  tempted,  except  to  an  imaginary  feast ;  so  let  us  hasten 
onward,  devouring  the  vision  of  a  plum- cake. 

Here  are  pleasures,  as  some  people  would  say,  of  a  more  exalted 
kind,  in  the  window  of  a  bookseller.  Is  Annie  a  literary  lady  i 
Yes  ;  she  is  deeply  read  in  Peter  Parley's  tomes,  and  has  an  increas- 
ing love  for  fairy-tales,  though  seldom  met  with  nowadays,  and 
she  ■will  subscribe,  next  year,  to  the  Juvenile  Miscellany.  But, 
truth  to  tell,  she  is  apt  to  turn  away  from  the  printed  page,  and 
keep  gazing  at  the  pretty  pictures,  such  as  the  gay-colored  ones 
which  make  this  shop  window  the  continual  loitering-place  of  chil- 
dren. "What  would  Annie  think  if,  in  the  book  which  I  mean  to 
send  her  on  Xew  Year's  day,  she  should  find  her  sweet  little  self, 
bound  up  in  silk  or  morocco  with  gilt  edges,  there  to  remain  till 
she  become  a  woman  grown,  with  children  of  her  own  to  read 
about  their  mother's  childhood.     That  would  be  very  queer. 

Little  Annie  is  weary  of  pictures,  and  pulls  me  onward  by  the 
hand,  till  suddenly  we  pause  at  the  most  wondrous  shop  in  all  the 
town.     0  my  stars  !     Is  this  a  toyshop,  or  is   it  fairyland  ?     For 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  17 

here  are  gilded  chariots,  in  which  the  king  and  queen  of  the  fairies 
might  ride  side  by  side,  while  their  courtiers,  on  these  small  horses, 
should  gallop  in  triumphal  procession  before  and  behind  the  royal 
pair.  Here,  too,  are  dishes  of  china-ware,  fit  to  be  the  diningset 
of  those  same  princely  personages  when  they  make  a  regal  ban- 
quet in  the  stateliest  hall  of  their  palace,  full  five  feet  high,  and 
behold  their  nobles  feasting  adown  the  long  perspective  of  the 
table.  Be.twixt  the  king  and  queen  should  sit  my  little  Annie,  the 
prettiest  fairy  of  them  all.  Here  stands  a  turbaned  Turk,  threat- 
ening us  with  his  sabre,  like  an  ugly  heathen  as  he  is.  And  next 
a  Chinese  mandarin,  who  nods  his  head  at  Annie  and  myself. 
Here  we  may  review  a  whole  army  of  horse  and  foot,  in  red  and 
blue  uniforms,  with  drums,  fifes,  trumpets,  and  all  kinds  of  noise- 
less music  ;  they  have  halted  on  the  shelf  of  this  window,  after 
their  weary  march  from  Liliput.  But  what  cares  Annie  for  sol- 
diers %  ISTo  conquering  queen  is  she,  neither  a  Semiramis  nor  a 
Catharine  ;  her  whole  heart  is  set  upon  that  doll,  who  gazes  at  us 
with  such  a  fashionable  stare.  This  is  the  little  girl's  true  play- 
thing. Though  made  of  wood,  a  doll  is  a  visionary  and  ethereal 
personage,  endowed  by  childish  fancy  with  a  peculiar  life ;  the 
mimic  lady  is  a  heroine  of  romance,  an  actor  and  a  sufferer  in  a 
thousand  shadowy  scenes,  the  chief  inhabitant  of  that  wild  world 
with  which  children  ape  the  real  one.  Little  Annie  does  not 
understand  what  I  am  saying,  but  looks  wishfully  at  the  proud 
lady  in  the  window.  We  will  invite  her  home  with  us  as  we 
return.  Meantime,  good  by,  Dame  Doll!  A  toy  yourself,  you 
look  forth  from  your  window  upon  many  ladies  that  are  also  toys, 
though  they  walk  and  speak,  and  upon  a  crowd  in  pursuit  of  toys, 
though  they  wear  grave  visages.  0,  with  your  never-closing  eyes, 
had  you  but  an  intellect  to  moralize  on  all  that  flits  before  them, 
what  a  wise  doll  would  you  be  !  Come,  little  Annie,  we  shall  find 
toys  enough,  go  where  we  may. 

iSTow  we  elbow  our  way  among  the  throng  again.  It  is  curious, 
in  the  most  crowded  part  of  a  town,  to  meet  with  living  creatures 
that  had  their  birthplace  in  some  far  solitude,  but  have  acquired  a 


18  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

second  nature  in  the  wilderness  of  men.  Look  up,  Annie,  at  that 
canary-bird,  hanging  out  of  the  window  in  his  cage.  Poor  little 
fellow  !  His  golden  feathers  are  all  tarnished  in  this  smoky  sun- 
shine ;  he  would  have  glistened  twice  as  brightly  among  the  sum- 
mer islands ;  but  still  he  has  become  a  citizen  in  all  his  tastes  and 
habits,  and  would  not  sing  half  so  well  without  the  uproar  that 
drowns  his  music.  What  a  pity  that  he  does  not  know  how  mis- 
erable he  is  !  There  is  a  parrot,  too,  calling  out,  "  Pretty  Poll ! 
Pretty  Poll ! "  as  we  pass  by.  Foolish  bird,  to  be  talking  about 
her  prettiness  to  strangers,  especially  as  she  is  not  a  pretty  Poll, 
though  gaudily  dressed  in  green  and  yellow.  If  she  had  said 
"Pretty  Annie,"  there  would  have  been  some  sense  in  it.  See 
that  gray  squirrel,  at  the  door  of  the  fruit-shop,  whirling  round 
and  round  so  merrily  within  his  wire  wheel !  Being  condemned 
to  the  treadmill,  he  makes  it  an  amusement.  Admirable  phi- 
losophy ! 

Here  comes  a  big,  rough  dog,  a  countryman's  dog  in  search  of 
his  master  ;  smelling  at  everybody's  heels,  and  touching  little 
Annie's  hand  with  his  cold  nose,  but  hurrying  away,  though  she 
would  fain  have  patted  him.  Success  to  your  search,  Fidelity  ! 
And  there  sits  a  great  yellow  cat  upon  a  window-sill,  a  very  corpu- 
lent and  comfortable  cat,  gazing  at  this  transitory  world,  with 
owl's  ej'es,  and  making  pithy  comments,  doubtless,  or  what  appear 
such,  to  the  silly  beast.  0  sage  puss,  make  room  for  me  beside 
you,  and  we  will  be  a  pair  of  philosophers  ! 

Here  we  see  something  to  remind  us  of  the  town-crier,  and  his 
ding-dong  bell  !  Look  !  look  at  that  great  cloth  spread  out  in  the 
air,  pictured  all  over  with  wild  beasts,  as  if  they  had  met  together 
to  choose  a  king,  according  to  their  custom  in  the  days  of  .Fsop. 
But  they  are  choosing  neither  a  king  nor  a  president,  else  we 
should  hear  a  most  horrible  snarling  !  They  have  come  from  the 
deep  woods,  and  the  wild  mountains,  and  the  desert  sands,  and  the 
polar  snows,  only  to  do  homage  to  my  little  Annie.  As  we  enter 
among  them,  the  great  elephant  makes  us  a  bow,  in  the  best  style 
of  elephantine   courtesy,  bending  lowly  down  his   mountain  bulk. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  19 

with  trunk  abased  and  leg  thrust  out  behind.  Annie  returns 
the  salute,  much  to  the  gratification  of  the  elephant,  who  is  cer- 
tainly the  best-bred  monster  in  the  caravan.  The  Lion  and  the 
lioness  are  busy  with  two  beef-bones.  The  royal  tiger,  the  beauti- 
ful, the  untamable,  keeps  pacing  his  narrow  cage  with  a  haughty 
step,  unmindful  of  the  spectators,  or  recalling  the  fierce  deeds  of 
his  former  life,  when  he  was  wont  to  leap  forth  upon  such  inferior 
animals,  from  the  jungles  of  Bengal. 

Here  we  see  the  very  same  wolf,  —  do  not  go  near  him,  Annie  ! 
—  the  self-same  wolf  that  devoured  little  Red  Riding-Hood  and  her 
grandmother.  In  the  next  cage,  a  hyena  from  Egypt,  who  has 
doubtless  howled  around  the  pyramids,  and  a  black  bear  from  our 
own  forests,  are  fellow-prisoners  and  most  excellent  friends.  Are 
there  any  two  living  creatures  who  have  so  few  sympathies  that 
they  cannot  possibly  be  friends'?  Here  sits  a  great  white  bear, 
whom  common  observers  would  call  a  very  stupid  beast,  though  I 
perceive  him  to  be  only  absorbed  in  contemplation  ;  he  is  thinking 
of  his  voyages  on  an  iceberg,  and  of  his  comfortable  home  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  north  pole,  and  of  the  little  cubs  whom  he  left  roll- 
ing in  the  eternal  snows.  In  fact,  he  is  a  bear  of  sentiment.  But 
0,  those  unsentimental  monkeys  !  the  ugly,  grinning,  aping,  chat- 
tering, ill-natured,  mischievous,  and  queer  little  brutes.  Annie 
does  not  love  the  monkeys.  Their  ugliness  shocks  her  pure, 
instinctive  delicacy  of  taste,  and  makes  her  mind  unquiet,  because 
it  bears  a  wild  and  dark  resemblance  to  humanity.  But  here  is  a 
little  pony,  just  big  enough  for  Annie  to  ride,  and  round  and 
round  he  gallops  in  a  circle,  keeping  time  with  his  trampling  hoofs 
to  a  band  of  music.  And  here,  —  with  a  laced  coat  and  a  cocked 
hat,  and  a  riding-whip  in  his  hand,  —  here  comes  a  little  gentle- 
man, small  enough  to  be  king  of  the  fairies,  and  ugly  enough  to  be 
king  of  the  gnomes,  and  takes  a  flying  leap  into  the  saddle.  Mer- 
rily, merrily  plays  the  music,  and  merrily  gallops  the  pony,  and 
merrily  rides  the  little  old  gentleman.  Come,  Annie,  into  the 
6treet  again  ;  perchance  we  may  see  monkeys  on  horseback  there  ! 

Mercy  on  us,  what  a  noisy  world  we  quiet  people  live  in  !     Did 


20  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

Annie  ever  read  the  Cries  of  London  City?  With  what  lusty 
lungs  doth  yonder  man  proclaim  that  his  wheelbarrow  is  full  of 
lobsters  !  Here  comes  another  mounted  on  a  cart,  and  blowing  a 
hoarse  and  dreadful  blast  from  a  tin  horn,  as  much  as  to  say 
"  Fresh  fish  !  "  And  hark  !  a  voice  on  high,  like  that  of  a  muez- 
zin from  the  summit  of  a  mosque,  announcing  that  .some  chimney- 
sweeper has  emerged  from  smoke  and  soot,  and  darksome  caverns, 
into  the  upper  air.  What  cares  the  world  for  that  ?  But,  wi-lla- 
day  !  we  hear  a  shrill  voice  of  affliction,  the  scream  of  a  little  child, 
rising  louder  with  every  repetition  of  that  smart,  sharp,  slapping 
sound,  produced  by  an  open  hand  on  tender  flesh.  Annie  sympa- 
thizes, though  without  experience  of  such  direful  woe.  Lo  !  the 
town-crier  again,  with  some  new  secret  for  the  public  ear.  Will 
he  tell  us  of  an  auction,  or  of  a  lost  pocket-book,  or  a  show  of 
beautiful  wax  figures,  or  of  some  monstrous  beast  more  horrible 
than  any  in  the  caravan  ?  I  guess  the  latter.  See  how  he  uplifts 
the  bell  in  his  right  hand,  and  shakes  it  slowly  at  first,  then  with 
a  hurried  motion,  till  the  clapper  seems  to  strike  both  sides  at 
once,  and  the  sounds  are  scattered  forth  in  quick  succession,  far 
and  near. 

Ding-dong  !     Ding-dong  !     Ding-dong  ! 

Now  he  raises  his  clear,  loud  voice,  above  all  the  din  of  the 
town  ;  it  drowns  the  buzzing  talk  of  many  tongues,  and  draws 
each  man's  mind  from  his  own  business  ;  it  rolls  up  and  down  the 
echoing  street,  and  ascends  to  the  hushed  chamber  of  the  sick,  and 
penetrates  downward  to  the  cellar-kitchen,  where  the  hot  cook 
turns  from  the  fire  to  listen.  Who,  of  all  that  address  the  public 
ear,  whether  in  church  or  court-house  or  hall  of  state,  has  such  an 
attentive  audience  as  the  town-crier]  "What  saith  the  people's 
orator  1 

"  Strayed  from  her  home,  a  little  girl,  of  five  years  old,  in  a 
blue  silk  frock  and  white  pantalets,  with  brown  curling  hair  and 
hazel  eyes.     Whoever  will  bring  her  to  her  afflicted  mother  —  " 

Stop,  stop,  town-crier  !  The  lost  is  found.  0  my  pretty  Annie, 
we  forgot  to  tell  your  mother  of  our  ramble,  and  she  is  in  despair, 


STORIES   OF  CHILL)   LIFE.  21 

and  has  sent  the  town-crier  to  hellow  up  and  down  the  streets, 
affrighting  old  and  young,  for  the  loss  of  a  little  girl  who  has  not 
once  let  go  my  hand  !  Well,  let  us  hasten  homeward  •  and  as  we 
go,  forget  not  to  thank  Heaven,  my  Annie,  that,  after  wandering  a 
little  way  into  the  world,  you  may  return  at  the  first  summons, 
with  an  untainted  and  unwearied  heart,  and  be  a  happy  child 
again.  But  I  have  gone  too  far  astray  for  the  town-crier  to  call 
me  back. 

Sweet  has  been  the  charm  of  childhood  on  my  spirit,  throughout 
my  ramble  with  little  Annie  !  Say  not  that  it  has  been  a  waste  of 
precious  moments,  an  idle  matter,  a  babble  of  childish  talk,  and  a 
revery  of  childish  imaginations,  about  topics  unworthy  of  a  grown 
man's  notice.  Has  it  been  merely  this  1  Not  so  ;  not  so.  They 
are  not  truly  wise  who  would  affirm  it.  As  the  pure  breath  of 
children  revives  the  life  of  aged  men,  so  is  our  moral  nature 
revived  by  their  free  and  simple  thoughts,  their  native  feeling,  their 
airy  mirth,  for  little  cause  or  none,  their  grief,  soon  roused  and 
soon  allayed.  Their  influence  on  us  is  at  least  reciprocal  with  ours 
on  them.  When  our  infancy  is  almost  forgotten,  and  our  boyhood 
long  departed,  though  it  seems  but  as  yesterday  ;  when  life  settles 
darkly  down  upon  us,  and  we  doubt  whether  to  call  ourselves  young 
any  more,  then  it  is  good  to  steal  away  from  the  society  of  bearded 
men,  and  even  of  gentler  woman,  and  spend  an  hour  or  two  with 
children.  After  drinking  from  those  fountains  of  still  fresh  exist- 
ence, we  shall  return  into  the  crowd,  as  I  do  now,  to  struggle  on- 
ward and  do  our  part  in  life,  perhaps  as  fervently  as  ever,  but,  for 
a  time,  with  a  kinder  and  purer  heart,  and  a  spirit  more  lightly 
wise.     All  this  by  thy  sweet  magic,  dear  little  Annie  ! 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


22 


CHILD  LIFE  IS   PROSE. 


WHY   THE   COW   TUEXED    HEE    HEAD   AWAY. 


"  "A  /TOOLLY  COW,  your  barn  is  warm  ,  the  wintry  winds 
-LVJ_  cannot  reach  you.  nor  frost  nor  snow.  Why  are  your 
eyes  so  sad  ?  Take  this  wisp  of  hay.  See,  I  am  holding  it  up  ? 
It  is  very  good.  Now  you  turn  your  head  away.  Why  do  you 
look  so  sorrowful,  Moolly  Cow,  and  turn  your  head  away  1  " 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  23 

"  Little  girl,  I  am  thinking  of  the  time  when  that  dry  wisp  of 
hay  was  living  grass.  When  those  brown,  withered  flowers  were 
blooming  clovertops,  buttercups,  and  daisies,  and  the  bees  and  the 
butterflies  came  about  them.  The  air  was  warm  then,  and  gentle 
winds  blew.  Every  morning  I  went  forth  to  spend  the  day  in 
sunny  pastures.  I  am  thinking  now  of  those  early  summer  morn- 
ings, —  how  the  birds  sang,  and  the  sun  shone,  and  the  grass  glit- 
tered with  dew  !  and  the  boy  that  opened  the  gates,  how  merrily 
he  whistled !  I  stepped  quickly  along,  sniffing  the  fresh  morning 
air,  snatching  at  times  a  hasty  mouthful  by  the  way ;  it  was  really 
very  pleasant !  And  when  the  bars  fell,  how  joyfully  I  leaped 
over !  I  knew  where  the  grass  grew  green  and  tender,  and  has- 
tened to  eat  it  while  the  dew  was  on. 

"  As  the  sun  rose  higher  I  sought  the  shade,  and  at  noonday 
would  lie  under  the  trees  chewing,  chewing,  chewing,  with  half- 
shut  eyes,  and  the  drowsy  insects  humming  around  me  ;  or  perhaps 
I  would  stand  motionless  upon  the  river's  bank,  where  one  might 
catch  a  breath  of  air,  or  wade  deep  in  to  cool  myself  in  the  stream. 
And  when  noontime  was  passed  and  the  heat  grew  less,  I  went 
back  to  the  grass  and  flowers. 

"  And  thus  the  long  summer  day  sped  on,  —  sped  pleasantly 
on,  for  I  was  never  lonely.  No  lack  of  company  in  those  sunny 
pasture-lands  !  The  grasshoppers  and  crickets  made  a  great  stir, 
bees  buzzed,  butterflies  were  coming  and  going,  and  birds  singing 
always.  I  knew  where  the  ground-sparrows  built,  and  all  about 
the  little  field-mice.  They  were  very  friendly  to  me,  for  often, 
while  nibbling  the  grass,  I  would  whisper,  '  Keep  dark,  little  mice ! 
Don't  fly,  sparrows  !     The  boys  are  coming  !  " 

"  No  lack  of  company,  —  0  no  !  When  that  withered  hay  was 
living  grass,  yellow  with  buttercups,  white  with  daisies,  pink  with 
clover,  it  was  the  home,  of  myriads  of  little  insects,  —  very,  very 
little  insects.  0,  but  they  made  things  lively,  crawling,  hop- 
ping, skipping  among  the  roots,  and  up  and  down  the  stalks,  so 
happy,  so  full  of  life,  —  never  still !  And  now  not  one  left  alive  ! 
They  are  gone.      That  pleasant  summer-time  is  gone.     0,   these 


24  CHILD   LIFE  IX  PllOSE. 

long,  dismal  winter  nights  !  All  day  I  stand  in  my  lonely  stall, 
listening,  not  to  the  song  of  birds,  or  hum  of  bees,  or  chirp  of 
grasshoppers,  or  the  pleasant  rustling  of  leaves,  but  to  the  noise  of 
howling  winds,  hail,  sleet,  and  driving  snow  ! 

"  Little  girl,  I  pray  you  don't  hold  up  to  me  that  wisp  of  hay. 
In  just  that  same  way  they  held  before  my  eyes,  one  pleasant  morn- 
ing, a  bunch  of  sweet  clover,  to  entice  me  from  my  pretty  calf ! 

"  Poor  thing !  It  was  the  only  one  I  had !  So  gay  and 
sprightly  !  Such  a  playful,  frisky,  happy  young  thing  !  It  was  a 
joy  to  see  her  caper  and  toss  her  heels  about,  without  a  thought 
of  care  or  sorrow.  It  was  good  to  feel  her  nestling  close  at  my 
side,  to  look  into  her  bright,  innocent  eyes,  to  rest  my  head  lov- 
ingly upon  her  neck  ! 

"  And  already  I  was  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  she 
would  become  steady  and  thoughtful  like  myself;  was  counting 
greatly  upon  her  company  of  nights  in  the  dark  barn,  or  in  roam- 
ing the  fields  through  the  long  summer  days.  For  the  butterflies 
and  bees,  and  all  the  bits  of  insects,  though  well  enough  in  their 
way,  and  most  excellent  company,  were,"  after  all,  not  akin  to  me, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  living  with  one's  own  blood  relations. 

"  But  I  lost  my  pretty  little  one  !  The  sweet  clover  enticed  me 
away.  When  I  came  back  she  was  gone  !  I  saw  through  the  bars 
the  rope  wound  about  her.  I  saw  the  cart.  I  saw  the  cruel  men 
lift  her  in.  She  made  a  mournful  noise.  I  cried  out,  and  thrust 
my  head  over  the  rail,  calling,  in  language  she  well  understood, 
'  Come  back  !  0,  come  back  ! ' 

"  She  looked  up  with  her  round,  sorrowful  eyes  and  wished  to 
come,  but  the  rope  held  her  fast  !  The  man  cracked  his  whip,  the 
cart  rolled  away ;  I  never  saw  her  more  ! 

"  No,  little  girl,  I  cannot  take  your  wisp  of  hay.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  silliest  hour  of  my  life,  —  of  a  day  when  I  surely  made 
myself  a  fool.  And  on  that  day,  too,  I  was  offered  by  a  little  girl 
a  bunch  of  grass  and  flowers. 

"  It  was  a  still  summer's  noon.  Xot  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring. 
I  had  waded   deep  into  the  stream,  which  was  then   calm  and 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  25 

smooth.  Looking  down  I  saw  my  own  image  in  the  water.  And 
'  I  perceived  that  my  neck  was  thick  and  clumsy,  that  my  hair  was 
brick-color,  and  my  head  of  an  ugly  shape,  with  two  horns  stick- 
ing out  much  like  the  prongs  of  a  pitchfork.  '  Truly,  Mrs.  Cow,' 
I  said,  '  you  are  by  no  means  handsome  !  ' 

"Just  then  a  horse  went  trotting  along  the  bank.  His  hair  was 
glossy  black,  he  had  a  flowing  mane,  and  a  tad  which  grew  thick 
and  long.  His  proud  neck  was  arched,  his  head  lifted  high.  He 
trotted  lightly  over  the  ground,  bending  in  his  hoofs  daintdy  at 
every  footfall.  Said  I  to  myself,  '  Although  not  well-looking,  — . 
which  is  a  great  pity,  —  it  is  quite  possible  that  I  can  step  beauti- 
fully, like  the  horse  ;  who  knows  i '  And  I  resolved  to  plod  on  no 
longer  in  sober  cow-fashion,  but  to  trot  off  nimbly  and  briskly  and 
lightly. 

"  I  hastdy  waded  ashore,  climbed  the  bank,  held  my  head  high, 
stretched  out  my  neck,  and  did  my  best  to  trot  like  the  horse, 
bending  in  my  hoofs  as  well  as  was  possible  at  every  step,  hoping 
that  all  would  admire  me. 

"  Some  children  gathering  flowers  near  by  burst  into  shouts  of 
laughter,  crying  out,  '  Look  !  Look  ! '  '  Mary  ! '  '  Tom  ! '  '  What 
ails  the  cow  % '  '  She  acts  like  a  horse  ! '  '  She  is  putting  on  airs  ! ' 
'  Clumsy  thing  !  '  '  Her  tail  is  like  a  pump-handle  ! '  '  0,  I  guess 
she  's  a  mad  cow  ! '  Then  they  ran,  and  I  sank  down  under  a  tree 
with  tears  in  my  eyes. 

"  But  one  little  girl  stayed  behind  the  rest,  and,  seeing  that  I  was 
quiet,  she  came  softly  up,  step  by  step,  holding  out  a  bunch  of 
grass  and  clover.  I  kept  still  as  a  mouse.  She  stroked  me  with 
her  soft  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  '  0  good  Moolly  Cow,  I  love  you  dearly  ;  for  my  mother  has 
told  me  very  nice  things  about  you.  Of  course,  you  are  not  hand- 
some. 0  no,  0  no  !  But  then  you  are  good-natured,  and  so  we  all 
love  you.  Every  day  you  give  us  sweet  milk, -and  never  keep  any 
for  yourself.  The  boys  strike  you  sometimes,  and  throw  stones, 
and  set  the  dogs  on  you  ;  but  you  give  them  your  milk  just  the 
same.     And  you  are  never  contrary  like  the  horse,  stopping  when 


26 


CHILI)   LIFE   IX   PROSE. 


you  ought  to  go,  and  going  when  you  ought  to  stop.  Nobody  has 
to  whisper  in  your  ears,  to  make  you  gentle,  as  they  do  to  horses  ; 
you  are  gentle  of  your  own  accord,  dear  Moolly  Cow.  It  you  do 
walk  up  to  children  sometimes,  you  won't  hook  ;  it 's  only  playing, 
and  I  will  stroke  you  and  love  you  dearly.  And  if  you  M  like  to 
know,  I  '11  tell  you  that  there  's  a  wonderful  lady  who  puts  you  into 
her  lovely  pictures,  away  over  the  water.' 

"  Her  words  gave  me  great  comfort,  and  may  she  never  lack  for 
milk  to  crumb  her  bread  in  !  But  0,  take  away  your  wisp  of  hay, 
little  girl ;  for  you  bring  to  mind  the  summer  days  which  are  gone, 
and  my  pretty  bossy,  that  was  stolen  away,  and  also  —  mv  own 
folly." 

Ahby  Morton  Diaz. 


ik;-~;j!  ■ 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  27 


THE   BABY   OF   THE   KEGIMENT. 

~\~X"7~E  were  in  our  winter  camp  on  Port  Royal  Island.     It  was 

V  V  a  lovely  November  morning,  soft  and  spring-like ;  the 
mocking-birds  were  singing,  and  the  cotton-fields  still  white  with 
fleecy  pods.  Morning  drill  was  over,  the  men  were  cleaning  their 
guns  and  singing  very  happily ;  the  officers  were  in  their  tents, 
reading  still  more  happily  their  letters  just  arrived  from  home. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  knock  at  my  tent-door,  and  the  latch  clicked. 
It  was  the  only  latch  in  camp,  and  I  was  very  proud  of  it,  and 
the  officers  always  clicked  it  as  loudly  as  possible,  in  order  to 
gratify  my  feelings.  The  door  opened,  and  the  Quartermaster 
thrust  in  the  most  beaming  face  I  ever  saw. 

"  Colonel,"  said  he,  "there  are  great  news  for  the  regiment.  My 
wife  and  baby  are  coming  by  the  next  steamer !  " 

"  Baby  !  "  said  I,  in  amazement.  "  Q.  M.,  you  are  beside  your- 
self." (We  always  called  the  Quartermaster  Q.  M.  for  shortness.) 
"  There  was  a  pass  sent  to  your  wife,  but  nothing  was  ever  said 
about  a  baby.     Baby  indeed  !  " 

"  But  the  baby  was  included  in  the  pass,"  replied  the  triumphant 
father-of-a-family.  "  You  don't  suppose  my  wife  would  come  down 
here  without  her  baby  !  Besides,  the  pass  itself  permits  her  to 
bring  necessary  baggage ;  and  is  not  a  baby  six  months  old  neces- 
sary baggage 1 " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  rather  anxiously,  "  how  can  you 
make  the  little  thing  comfortable  in  a  tent,  amidst  these  rigors  of 
a  South  Carolina  winter,  when  it  is  uncomfortably  hot  for  drill  at 
noon,  and  ice  forms  by  your  bedside  at  night  1 " 

"Trust  me  for  that,"  said  the  delighted  papa,  and  went  off 
whistling.  I  could  hear  him  telling  the  same  news  to  three  oth- 
ers, at  least,  before  he  got  to  his  own  tent. 


28  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

That  day  the  preparations  began,  and  soon  Ids  abode  was  a  won- 
der of  comfort.  There  were  posts  and  rafters,  and  a  raised  floor, 
and  a  great  chimney,  and  a  door  with  hinges,  —  every  luxury  ex- 
cept a  latch,  and  that  he  could  not  have,  for  mine  was  the  last  that 
could  be  purchased.  One  of  the  regimental  carpenters  was  em- 
ployed to  make  a  cradle,  and  another  to  make  a  bedstead  high 
enough  for  the  cradle  to  go  under.  Then  there  must  be  a  bit  of 
red  carpet  beside  the  bedstead  ;  and  thus  the  progress  of  splendor 
went  on.  The  wife  of  one  of  the  colored  sergeants  was  engaged  to 
act  as  nursery-maid.  She  was  a  very  respectable  young  woman,  the 
only  objection  to  her  being  that  she  smoked  a  pipe.  But  we 
thought  that  perhaps  Baby  might  not  dislike  tobacco  ;  and  if  she 
did,  she  would  have  excellent  opportunities  to  break  the  pipe  in 
pieces. 

In  due  time  the  steamer  arrived,  and  Baby  and  her  mother  were 
among  the  passengers.  The  little  recruit  was  soon  settled  in  her 
new  cradle,  and  slept  in  it  as  if  she  had  never  known  any  other. 
The  sergeant's  wife  soon  had  her  on  exhibition  through  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  from  that  time  forward  she  was  quite  a  queen  among 
us.  She  had  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pretty  brown  hair,  with  round, 
dimpled  cheeks,  and  that  perfect  dignity  which  is  so  beautiful  in 
a  baby.  She  hardly  ever  cried,  and  was  not  at  all  timid.  She 
would  go  to  anybody,  and  yet  did  not  encourage  any  romping  from 
any  but  the  most  intimate  friends.  She  always  wore  a  warm,  long- 
sleeved  scarlet  cloak  with  a  hood,  and  in  this  costume  was  carried, 
or  "  toted,"  as  the  soldiers  said,  all  about  the  camp.  At  "  guard- 
mounting  "  in  the  morning,  when  the  men  who  are  to  go  on  guard 
duty  for  the  day  are  drawn  up  to  be  inspected,  Baby  was  always 
there,  to  help  to  inspect  them.  She  did  not  say  much,  but  she 
eyed  them  very  closely,  and  seemed  fully  to  appreciate  their  blight 
buttons.  Then  the  Officer-of-the-Day,  who  appears  at  guard- 
mounting  with  his  sword  and  sash,  and  comes  afterwards  to  the 
Colonel's  tent  for  orders,  would  come  and  speak  to  Baby  on  his 
way,  and  receive  her  orders  first.  When  the  time  came  for  drill 
she  was  usually  present  to  watch  the  troops  ;  and  when  the  drum 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE,. 


29 


beat  for  dinner  she  liked  to  see  the  long  row  of  men  in  each  com- 
pany march  up  to  the  cook-house,  in  single  file,  each  with  tin  cup 
and  plate. 

During  the  day,  in  pleasant  weather,  she  might  be  seen  in  her 
nurse's  arms,  about  the  company  streets,  the  centre  of  an  admiring 
circle,  her  scarlet  costume  looking  very  pretty  amidst  the  shining 

black  cheeks  and  neat  blue  uniforms 
of  the  soldiers.  At  "  dress-parade," 
just  before  sunset,  she  was  always 
an  attendant.  As  I  stood  before 
the  regiment,  I  could  see  the  little 
X£jHk  :;-  spot  of  red,  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
1Cm«Is,  eye,  at  one  end  of  the  long  line  of 
men  ■  and  I  looked  with  so  much 


interest  for  her  small  person,  that,  instead  of  saying  at  the  proper 
time,  "  Attention,  Battalion  !  Shoulder  arms  ! "  it  is  a  wonder 
that  I  did  not  say,  "  Shoulder  babies  !  " 

Our  little  lady  was  very  impartial,  and  distributed  her  kind  looks 


30  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

to  everybody.  She  had  not  the  slightest  prejudice  against  color, 
and  did  not  care  in  the  least  whether  her  particular  friends  were 
black  or  white.  Her  especial  favorites,  I  think,  were  the  drum- 
mer-boys, who  were  not  my  favorites  by  any  means,  for  they  were 
a  roguish  set  of  scamps,  and  gave  more  trouble  than  all  the  grown 
men  in  the  regiment.  I  think  Annie  liked  them  because  they 
were  small,  and  made  a  noise,  and  had  red  caps  like  her  hood,  and 
red  facings  on  their  jackets,  and  also  because  they  occasionally 
stood  on  their  heads  for  her  amusement.  After  dress-parade  the 
whole  drum-corps  would  march  to  the  great  flag-staff,  and  wait  till 
just  sunset-time,  when  thejr  would  beat  "  the  retreat,"  and  then 
the  flag  would  be  hauled  down,  —  a  great  festival  for  Annie. 
Sometimes  the  Sergeant-Major  would  wrap  her  in  the  great  folds 
of  the  flag,  after  it  was  taken  down,  and  she  would  peep  out  very 
prettily  from  amidst  the  stars  and  stripes,  like  a  new-born  Goddess 
of  Liberty. 

About  once  a  month,  some  inspecting  officer  was  sent  to  the 
camp  by  the  General  in  command,  to  see  to  the  condition  of  every- 
thing in  the  regiment,  from  bayonets  to  buttons.  It  was  usually  a 
long  and  tiresome  process,  and,  when  everything  else  was  done,  I 
used  to  tell  the  officer  that  I  had  one  thing  more  for  him  to  in- 
spect, which  was  peculiar  to  our  regiment.  Then  I  would  send  for 
Baby  to  be  exidbited  ;  and  I  never  saw  an  inspecting  officer,  old  or 
young,  who  did  not  look  pleased  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
little,  fresh,  smiling  creature,  —  a  flower  in  the  midst  of  war.  And 
Annie  in  her  turn  would  look  at  them,  with  the  true  baby  dignity 
in  her  face,  —  that  deep,  earnest  look  which  babies  often  have,  and 
which  people  think  so  wonderful  when  Eaphael  paints  it,  although 
they  might  often  see  just  the  same  expression  in  the  faces  of  their 
own  darlings  at  home. 

Meanwhile  Annie  seemed  to  like  the  camp  style  of  housekeeping 
very  much.  Her  father's  tent  was  double,  and  he  used  the  front 
apartment  for  his  office,  and  the  inner  room  for  parlor  and  bed- 
room, while  the  nurse  had  a  separate  tent  and  wash-room  behind 
all.      I  remember  that,  the  first  time  I  went  there  in  the  evening, 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  31 

it  was  to  borrow  some  writing-paper ;  and  while  Baby's  mother 
was  hunting  for  it  in  the  front  tent,  I  heard  a  great  cooing  and 
murmuring  in  the  inner  room.  I  asked  if  Annie  was  still  awake, 
and  her  mother  told  me  to  go  in  and  see.  Pushing  aside  the  can- 
vas door,  I  entered.  No  sign  of  anybody  was  to  be  seen ;  but  a 
variety  of  soft  little  happy  noises  seemed  to  come  from  some  un- 
seen corner.  Mrs.  C.  came  quietly  in,  pulled  away  the  counterpane 
of  her  own  bed,  and  drew  out  the  rough  cradle,  where  lay  the  little 
damsel,  perfectly  happy,  and  wider  awake  than  anything  but  a 
baby  possibly  can  be.  She  looked  as  if  the  seclusion  of  a  dozen 
family  bedsteads  would  not  be  enough  to  discourage  her  spirits, 
and  I  saw  that  camp  life  was  likely  to  suit  her  very  well. 

A  tent  can  be  kept  very  warm,  for  it  is  merely  a  house  with  a 
thinner  wall  than  usual ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  Baby  felt  the 
cold  much  more  than  if  she  had  been  at  home  that  winter.  The 
great  trouble  is,  that  a  tent-chimney,  not  being  built  very  high, 
is  apt  to  smoke  when  the  wind  is  in  a  certain  direction ;  and 
when  that  happens  it  is  hardly  possible  to  stay  inside.  So  we 
used  to  build  the  chimneys  of  some  tents  on  the  east  side,  and 
those  of  others  on  the  west,  and  thus  some  of  the  tents  were 
always  comfortable.  I  have  seen  Baby's  mother  running,  in  a  hard 
rain,  with  little  Bed-Riding-Hood  in  her  arms,  to  take  refuge  with 
the  Adjutant's  wife,  when  every  other  abode  was  full  of  smoke  ; 
and  I  must  admit  that  there  were  one  or  two  windy  days  that 
season  when  nobody  could  really  keep  warm,  and  Annie  had  to 
remain  ignominiously  in  her  cradle,  with  as  many  clothes  on  as 
possible,  for  almost  the  whole  time. 

The  Quartermaster's  tent  was  very  attractive  to  us  in  the  even- 
ing. I  remember  that  once,  on  passing  near  it  after  nightfall,  I 
heard  our  Major's  fine  voice  singing  Methodist  hymns  within,  and 
Mrs.  C.'s  sweet  tones  chiming  in.  So  I  peeped  through  the  outer 
door.  The  fire  was  burning  very  pleasantly  in  the  inner  tent,  and 
the  scrap  of  new  red  carpet  made  the  floor  look  quite  magnificent. 
The  Major  sat  on  a  box,  our  surgeon  on  a  stool ;  "  Q.  M."  and  his 
wife,  and  the  Adjutant's  wife,  and  one  of  the  captains,  were  all 


32  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

sitting  on  the  bed,  singing  as  well  as  they  knew  how;  and  the 
baby  was  under  the  bed.  Baby  had  retired  for  the  night,  —  was 
overshadowed,  suppressed,  sat  upon  ;  the  singing  went  on,  and  she 
had  wandered  away  into  her  own  land  of  dreams,  nearer  to  heaven, 
perhaps,  than  any  pitch  their  voices  could  attain.  I  went  in  and 
joined  the  party.  Presently  the  music  stopped,  and  another  officer 
was  sent  for,  to  sing  some  particular  song.  At  this  pause  the  in- 
visible innocent  waked  a  little,  and  began  to  cluck  and  coo. 

"  It 's  the  kitten,"  exclaimed  somebody. 

"  It 's  my  baby  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  C.  triumphantly,  in  that  tone 
of  unfailing  personal  pride  which  belongs  to  young  mothers. 

The  people  all  got  up  from  the  bed  for  a  moment,  while  Annie 
was  pulled  from  beneath,  wide  awake,  and  placid  as  usual ;  and  she 
sat  in  one  lap  or  another  during  the  rest  of  the  concert,  sometimes 
winking  at  the  candle,  but  usually  listening  to  the  songs,  with  a 
calm  and  critical  expression,  as  if  she  could  make  as  much  noise 
as  any  of  them,  whenever  she  saw  fit  to  try.  Not  a  sound  did  she 
make,  however,  except  one  little  soft  sneeze,  which  led  to  an  im- 
mediate flood-tide  of  red  shawl,  covering  every  part  of  her  but  the 
forehead.  But  I  soon  hinted  that  the  concert  had  better  be 
ended,  because  I  knew  from  observation  that  the  small  damsel 
had  carefully  watched  a  regimental  inspection  and  a  brigade 
drill  on  that  day,  and  that  an  interval  of  repose  was  certainly 
necessary. 

Annie  did  not  long  remain  the  only  baby  in  camp.  One  day, 
on  going  out  to  the  stables  to  look  at  a  horse,  I  heard  a  sound  of 
baby-talk,  addressed  by  some  man  to  a  child  near  by,  and,  looking 
round  the  corner  of  a  tent,  I  saw  that  one  of  the  hostlers  had 
something  black  and  round,  lying  on  the  sloping  side  of  a  tent, 
with  which  he  was  playing  very  eagerly.  It  proved  to  be  his 
baby,  —  a  plump,  shiny  thing,  younger  than  Annie  ;  and  I  never 
saw  a  merrier  picture  than  the  happy  father  frolicking  with  his 
child,  while  the  mother  stood  quietly  by.  This  was  Baby  Xuniber 
Two,  and  she  stayed  in  camp  several  weeks,  the  two  innocents 
meeting  each  other  every  day  in  the  placid  indifference  that  be- 


STORIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  33 

longed  to  their  years  ;  both  were  happy  little  healthy  things,  and  it 
never  seemed  to  cross  their  minds  that  there  was  any  difference  in 
their  complexions.  As  I  said  before,  Annie  was  not  troubled  by 
any  prejudice  in  regard  to  color,  nor  do  I  suppose  that  the  other 
little  maiden  was. 

Annie  enjoyed  the  tent-life  very  much  ;  but  when  we  were  sent 
out  on  picket  soon  after,  she  enjoyed  it  still  more.  Our  head- 
quarters were  at  a  deserted  plantation  house,  with  one  large  parlor, 
a  dining-room  and  a  few  bedrooms.  Baby's  father  and  mother  had 
a  room  up  stairs,  with  a  stove  whose  pipe  went  straight  out  at  the 
window.  This  was  quite  comfortable,  though  half  the  windows 
were  broken,  and  there  was  no  glass  and  no  glazier  to  mend  them. 
The  windows  of  the  large  parlor  were  in  much  the  same  condition, 
though  we  had  an  immense  fireplace,  where  we  had  a  bright  fire 
whenever  it  was  cold,  and  always  in  the  evening.  The  walls  of 
this  room  were  very  dirty,  and  it  took  our  ladies  several  days  to 
cover  all  the  unsightly  places  with  wreaths  and  hangings  of  ever- 
green. In  this  performance  Baby  took  an  active  part.  Her 
duties  consisted  in  sitting  in  a  great  nest  of  evergreen,  pulling 
and  fingering  the  fragrant  leaves,  and  occasionally  giving  a  lit- 
tle cry  of  glee  when  she  had  accomplished  some  piece  of  decided 
mischief. 

There  was  less  entertainment  to  be  found  in  the  camp  itself  at 
this  time ;  but  the  household  at  head-quarters  was  larger  than 
Baby  had  been  accustomed  to.  We  had  a  great  deal  of  company, 
moreover,  and  she  had  quite  a  gay  life  of  it.  She  usually  made 
her  appearance  in  the  large  parlor  soon  after  breakfast ;  and  to 
dance  her  for  a  few  moments  in  our  arms  was  one  of  the  first  daily 
duties  of  each  one.  Then  the  morning  reports  began  to  arrive 
from  the  different  outposts,  —  a  mounted  officer  or  courier  coming 
in  from  each  place,  dismounting  at  the  door,  and  clattering  in  with 
jingling  arms  and  spurs,  each  a  new  excitement  for  Annie.  She 
usually  got  some  attention  from  any  officer  who  came,  receiving 
with  her  wonted  dignity  any  daring  caress.  When  the  messengers 
had  ceased  to  be  interesting,  there  were  always  the  horses  to  look 


34  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

at,  held  or  tethered  under  the  trees  beside  the  sunny  piazza.  After 
the  various  couriers  had  been  received,  other  messengers  would  bo 
despatched  to  the  town,  seven  miles  away,  and  Baby  had  all  the 
excitement  of  their  mounting  and  departure.  Her  father  was 
often  one  of  the  riders,  and  would  sometimes  seize  Annie  for  a 
good-by  kiss,  place  her  on  the  saddle  before  him,  gallop  her  round 
the  house  once  or  twice,  and  then  give  her  back  to  her  nurse's  arms 
again.  She  was  perfectly  fearless,  and  such  boisterous  attentions 
never  frightened  her,  nor  did  they  ever  interfere  with  her  Bweet, 
infantine  self-possession. 

After  the  riding-parties  had  gone,  there  was  the  piazza  still  for 
entertainment,  with  a  sentinel  pacing  up  and  down  before  it ;  but 
Annie  did  not  enjoy  the  sentinel,  though  his  breastplate  and  but- 
tons shone  like  gold,  so  much  as  the  hammock  which  always  hung 
swinging  between  the  pillars.  It  was  a  pretty  hammock,  with 
great  open  meshes ;  and  she  delighted  to  he  in  it,  and  have  the 
netting  closed  above  her,  so  that  she  could  only  be  seen  through 
the  apertures.  I  can  see  her  now,  the  fresh  little  rosy  thing,  in  her 
blue  and  scarlet  wrappings,  with  one  round  and  dimpled  arm  thrust 
forth  through  the  netting,  and  the  other  grasping  an  armful  of 
blushing  roses  and  fragrant  magnolias.  She  looked  like  those 
pretty  French  bas-reliefs  of  Cupids  imprisoned  in  baskets,  and 
peeping  through.  That  hammock  was  a  very  useful  appendage  ;  it 
was  a  couch  for  us,  a  cradle  for  Baby,  a  nest  for  the  kittens  ;  and 
we  had,  moreover,  a  little  hen,  which  tried  to  roost  there  every 
night. 

When  the  mornings  were  colder,  and  the  stove  up  stairs  smoked 
the  wrong  way,  Baby  was  brought  down  in  a  very  incomplete  state 
of  toilet,  and  finished  her  dressing  by  the  great  fire.  VCe  found  her 
bare  shoulders  very  becoming,  and  she  was  very  much  interested  in 
her  own  little  pink  toes.  After  a  very  slow  dressing,  she  had  a 
still  slower  breakfast  out  of  a  tin  cup  of  warm  milk,  of  which  she 
generally  spilt  a  good  deal,  as  she  had  much  to  do  in  watching 
everybody  who  came  into  the  room,  and  seeing  that  there  was  no 
mischief  done.    Then  she  would  be  placed  on  the  floor,  on  our  only 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  35 

piece  oi  carpet,  and  the  kittens  would  be  brought  in  for  her  to 
play  with. 

We  had,  at  different  times,  a  variety  of  pets,  of  whom  Annie 
did  not  take  much  notice.  Sometimes  we  had  young  partridges, 
caught  by  the  drummer-boys  in  trap-cages.  The  children  called 
them  "  Bob  and  Chloe,"  because  the  first  notes  of  the  male  and 
female  sound  like  those  names.  One  day  I  brought  home  an 
opossum,  with  her  blind  bare  little  young  clinging  to  the  droll 
pouch  where  their  mothers  keep  them.  Sometimes  we  had  pretty 
green  lizards,  their  color  darkening  or  deepening,  like  that  of  chame- 
leons, in  light  or  shade.  But  the  only  pets  that  took  Baby's  fancy 
were  the  kittens.  They  perfectly  delighted  her,  from  the  first  mo- 
ment she  saw  them  ;  they  were  the  only  things  younger  than  her- 
self that  she  had  ever  beheld,  and  the  only  things  softer  than 
themselves  that  her  small  hands  had  grasped.  It  was  astonishing 
to  see  how  much  the  kittens  would  endure  from  her.  They  could 
scarcely  be  touched  by  any  one  else  without  mewing ;  but  when 
Annie  seized  one  by  the  head  and  the  other  by  the  tail,  and  rubbed 
them  violently  together,  they  did  not  make  a  sound.  I  suppose 
that  a  baby's  grasp  is  really  soft,  even  if  it  seems  ferocious,  and  so 
it  gives  less  pain  than  one  would  think.  At  any  rate,  the  little  ani- 
mals had  the  best  of  it  very  soon ;  for  they  entirely  outstripped 
Annie  in  learning  to  walk,  and  they  could  soon  scramble  away 
beyond  her  reach,  while  she  sat  in  a  sort  of  dumb  despair,  unable 
to  comprehend  why  anything  so  much  smaller  than  herself  should 
be  so  much  nimbler.  Meanwhile,  the  kittens  would  sit  up  and 
look  at  her  with  the  most  provoking  indifference,  just  out  of  arm's 
length,  until  some  of  us  would  take  pity  on  the  young  lady,  and 
toss  her  furry  playthings  back  to  her  again.  "  Little  baby," 
she  learned  to  call  them  ;  and  these  were  the  very  first  words 
she  spoke. 

Baby  had  evidently  a  natural  turn  for  war,  further  cultivated  by 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  drills  and  parades.  The  nearer  she 
came  to  actual  conflict  the  better  she  seemed  to  like  it,  peaceful  as 
her  own  little  ways  might  be.     Twice,  at  least,  while  she  was  with 


3G  CHILD   LIFE  J.Y  I'UUSE. 

lis  on  picket,  we  had  alarms  from  the  Rebel  troops,  who  would 
bring  down  cannon  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  Ferry,  about  two 
miles  beyond  its,  and  throw  shot  and  shell  over  upon  our  side.  Then 
the  officer  at  the  Ferry  would  think  that  there  was  to  be  an  attack 
made,  and  couriers  would  be  sent,  riding  to  and  fro,  and  the  men 
would  all  be  called  to  arms  in  a  hurry,  and  the  ladies  at  head- 
quarters would  all  put  on  their  best  bounets,  and  come  down  stairs, 
and  the  ambulance  would  be  made  ready  to  carry  them  to  a  plaee  of 
safety  before  the  expected  fight.  On  such  occasions  Baby  was  in 
all  her  glory.  She  shouted  with  delight  at  being  suddenly  nn- 
cribbed  and  thrust  into  her  little  scarlet  cloak,  and  brought  down 
stairs,  at  an  utterly  unusual  and  improper  hour,  to  a  piazza  with 
lights  and  people  and  horses  and  general  excitement.  She  crowed 
and  gurgled  and  made  gestures  with  her  little  fists,  and  screamed 
out  what  seemed  to  be  her  advice  on  the  military  situation,  as 
freely  as  if  she  had  been  a  newspaper  editor.  Except  that  it  was 
rather  difficult  to  understand  her  precise  directions,  I  do  not  know 
hut  the  whole  Rebel  force  might  have  been  captured  through  her 
plans.  And,  at  any  rate,  I  should  much  rather  obey  her  orders 
than  those  of  some  generals  whom  I  have  known ;  for  she  at 
least  meant  no  harm,  and  would  lead  one  into  no  mischief. 

However,  at  last  the  danger,  such  as  it  was,  would  be  all  over, 
and  the  ladies  would  be  induced  to  go  peacefully  to  bed  again  ;  and 
Annie  would  retreat  with  them  to  her  ignoble  cradle,  very  much 
disappointed,  and  looking  vainly  back  at  the  more  martial  scene 
below.  The  next  morning  she  would  seem  to  have  forgotten  all 
about  it,  and  would  spill  her  bread  and  milk  by  the  fire  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened. 

I  suppose  we  hardly  knew,  at  the  time,  how  large  a  part  of  the 
sunshine  of  our  daily  lives  was  contributed  by  dear  little  Annie. 
Yet,  when  I  now  look  back  on  that  pleasant  Southern  home,  she 
seems  as  essential  a  part  of  it  as  the  mocking-birds  or  the  magno- 
lias, and  I  cannot  convince  myself  that,  in  returning  to  it,  I  should 
not  find  her  there.  But  Annie  went  back,  with  the  spring,  to  her 
Northern  birthplace,  and  then  passed  away  from  this  earth  before 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


37 


her  little  feet  had  fairly  learned  to  tread  its  paths ;  and  when  I 
meet  her  next  it  must  be  in  some  world  where  there  is  triumph 
without  armies,  and  where  innocence  is  trained  in  scenes  of  peace. 
I"  know,  however,  that  her  little  life,  short  as  it  seemed,  was  a 
blessing  to  us  all,  giving  a  perpetual  image  of  serenity  and  sweet- 
ness, recalling  the  lovely  atmosphere  of  far-off  homes,  and  holding 
us  by  unsuspected  ties  to  whatsoever  things  were  pure. 

T.  W.  Higginsoiu 


38  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PliOSE. 


PEUDY    PARLIN. 

PRUDY  PARLIN  and  her  sister  Susy,  three  years  older,  lived 
in  Portland,  in  the  State  of  Maine. 

Susy  was  more  than  six  years  old,  and  Prudy  was  between  three 
and  four.  Susy  could  sew  quite  well  for  a  girl  of  her  age,  and  had 
a  stint  every  day.  Prudy  always  thought  it  very  fine  to  do  just 
as  Susy  did,  so  she  teased  her  mother  to  let  her  have  some  patch- 
work too,  and  Mrs.  Parlin  gave  her  a  few  calico  pieces,  just  to 
keep  her  little  fingers  out  of  mischief. 

But  when  the  squares  were  basted  together,  she  broke  needles, 
pricked  her  fingers,  and  made  a  great  fuss ;  sometimes  crying,  and 
wishing  there  were  no  such  thing  as  patchwork. 

One  morning  she  sat  in  her  rocking-chair,  doing  what  she 
thought  was  a  stint.  She  kept  running  to  her  mother  with 
every  stitch,  saying,  "Will  that  do  \  "  Her  mother  was  very  busy, 
and  said,  "  My  little  daughter  must  not  come  to  me."  So  Prudy 
sat  down  near  the  door,  and  began  to  sew  with  all  her  might  :  but 
soon  her  little  .baby  sister  came  along  looking  so  cunning  that 
Prudy  dropped  her  needle  and  went  to  hugging  her. 

"  0  little  sister,"  cried  she,  "  I  would  n't  have  a  horse  come  and 
eat  you  up  for  anything  in  the  world  I  " 

After  this,  of  course,  her  mother  had  to  get  her  another  needle, 
and  then  thread  it  for  her.  She  went  to  sewing  again  till  she 
pricked  her  finger,  and  the  sight  of  the  wee  drop  of  blood  made 
her  cry. 

"  0  dear  !  I  wish  somebody  would  pity  me  ! "  But  her' 
mother  was  so  busy  frying  doughnuts  that  she  could  not  stop  to 
talk  much  ;  and  the  next  thing  she  saw  of  Prudy  she  was  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  while  her  patchwork  lay  on  the  spice-box. 

"  Prudy,  Prudy,  what  are  you  up  to  now  ? " 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  39 

"  Up  to  the  table,"  said  Prudy.  "  0  mother,  I  'm  so  sorry,  but 
I  've  broke  a  crack  in  the  pitcher  !  " 

"  What  will  mamma  do  with  you  t  You  have  n't  finished  your 
stint :  what  made  you  get  out  of  your  chair  1 " 

"  0,  I  thought  grandma  might  want  me  to  get  her  speckles.  I 
thought  I  would  go  and  find  Zip  too.  See,  mamma,  he  's  so  tickled 
to  see  me  he  shakes  all  over  —  every  bit  of  him  !  " 

"  Where  's  your  patchwork  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  You  've  got  a  double  name,  have  n't  you,  dog- 
gie t  It 's  Zip  Coon  ;  but  it  is  n't  a  very  double  name-,  —  is  it, 
mother  1 " 

When  Mrs.  Parlin  had  finished  her  doughnuts,  she  said,  "  Pussy, 
you  can't  keep  still  two  minutes.  Now,  if  you  want  to  sew  this 
patchwork  for  grandma's  quilt,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  shall  do. 
There  's  an  empty  hogshead  in  the  back  kitchen,  and  I  '11  lift  you 
into  that,  and  you  can't  climb  out.  I  '11  lift  you  out  when  youi- 
stint  is  done." 

"  0,  what  a  funny  little  house !  "  said  Prudy,  when  she  was 
inside  ;  and  as  she  spoke  her  voice  startled  her,  —  it  was  so  loud 
and  hollow.  "  I  '11  talk  some  more,"  thought  she,  "  it  makes  such 
a  queer  noise.  '  Old  Mrs.  Hogshead,  I  thought  I  'd  come  and  see 
you,  and  bring  my  work.  I  like  your  house,  ma'am,  only  I  should 
think  you  'd  want  some  windows.  I  s'pose  you  know  who  I  am, 
Mrs.  Hogshead  1  My  name  is  Prudy.  My  mother  did  n't  put  me 
in  here  because  I  was  a  naughty  girl,  for  I  have  n't  clone  nothing  — - 
nor  nothing  —  nor  nothing.     Do  you  want  to  hear  some  singing  ? 

'  0,  come,  come  away, 
From  labor  now  reposiii' ; 
Let  busy  Caro,  wife  of  Barrow, 
Come,  come  away  ! '  " 

"  Prudy,  what 's  the  matter  1 "  said  mamma,  from  the  next 
room. 

"Didn't  you  hear  somebody  singing'!"  said  Prudy;  "well, 
't  was  me." 

"  0,  I  was  afraid  you  were  crying,  my  clear  !  " 


40  CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

" Then  I  'II  stop,"  said  the  child.  "  Xnw,  Mrs.  Hogshead,  you 
won't  hear  me  singing  any  more,  —  it  mortifies  my.  mother  very 
much." 

(So  Prudy  made  her  ringers  fly,  and  s i  said,  "  Xow,  mamma, 

I  've  got  it  done,  and  I  'm  ready  to  be  took  out  .'  " 

Just  then  her  father  came  into  the  house.  "  Prudy  's  in  the 
hogshead,"  said  Mrs.  Parlin.  "  Won't  you  please  lift  her  out, 
father  (     I  've  got  baby  in  my  arms." 

Mr.  Parlin  peeped  into  the  hogshead.  "  How  in  this  world  did 
you  ever  get  in  here,  child  i  "  said  he.  "  I  think  I  '11  have  to  take 
you  out  with  a  pair  of  tongs." 

Prudy  laughed. 

"  Give  me  your  hands,"  said  papa.  "  Up  she  comes  !  Now, 
come  sit  on  my  knee,"  added  he,  when  they  had  gone  into  the  par- 
lor, "  and  tell  me  how  you  climbed  into  that  hogshead." 

"  Mother  dropped  me  in,  and  I  'm  going  to  stay  there  till  I  make 
a  bedquilt,  —  only  I  'm  coming  out  to  eat,  you  know." 

Mr.  Parlin  laughed  ;  but  just  then  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and 
when  they  went  to  the  table,  Prudy  was  soon  so  busy  with  her 
roasted  chicken  and  custard  pie  that  she  forgot  all  about  the  patch- 
work. 

Prudy  soon  tired  of  sewing,  and  her  mother  said,  laughing,  "  If 
Grandma  Pead  has  to  wait  for  somebody's  little  fingers  before  she 
gets  a  bedquilt.  poor  grandma  will  sleep  very  cold  indeed." 

The  calico  pieces  went  into  the  rag-bag.  and  that  was  the  last  of 
Prudy's  patchwork. 

One  day  the  children  wanted  to  go  and  play  in  the  "new 
house."  which  was  not  quite  done.  Mrs.  Parlin  was  almost  afraid 
little  Prudy  might  get  hurt,  for  there  were  a  great  many  loose 
boards  and  tools  lying  about,  and  the  carpenters,  who  were  at 
work  on  the  house,  had  all  gone  away  to  see  some  soldiers.  But 
at  last  she  said  they  might  go  if  Susy  would  be  very  careful  of 
her  little  sister. 

Susy  meant  to  watch  Prudy  with  great  care,  but  after  a  while 
she  got  to  thinking  of  something  else.     The  little  one  wanted  to 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  41 

play  "  catch,"  but  Susy  saw  a  great  deal  more  sport  in  building 
block  bouses. 

"  Now  I  know  ever  so  much  more  than  you  do,"  said  Susy.  "  I 
used  to  wash  dishes  and  scour  knives  when  I  was  four  years  old, 
and  that  was  the  time  I  learned  you  to  walk,  Prudy ;  so  you 
ought  to  play  with  me,  and  be  goody." 

"  Then  I  will ;  but  them  blocks  is  too  big,  Susy.  If  I  had  a 
axe  I  'd  chop  'em  :  I  '11  go  get  a  axe."  Little  Prudy  trotted  off,  and 
Susy  never  looked  up  from  her  play,  and  did  not  notice  that  she 
was  gone  a  long  while. 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Parlin  thought  she  would  go  and  see  what  the 
children  were  doing ;  so  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  over  to 
the  "  new  house."  Susy  was  still  busy  with  her  blocks,  but  she 
looked  up  at  the  Sound  of  her  mother's  footsteps. 

"  Where  is  Prudy  ? "  said  Mrs.  Parlin,  glancing  around. 

"  I  'm  'most  up  to  heaven,"  cried  a  little  voice  overhead. 

They  looked,  and  what  did  they  see  ?  Prudy  herself  standing 
on  the  highest  beam  of  the  house  !  She  had  climbed  three  ladders 
to  get  there.  Her  mother  had  heard  her  say  the  day  before  that 
"  she  did  n't  want  to  shut  up  her  eyes  and  die,  and  be  all  deaded 
up,  —  she  meant  to  have  her  hands  and  face  clean,  and  go  up  to 
heaven  on  a  ladder." 

"  0,"  thought  the  poor  mother,  "  she  is  surely  on  the  way  to 
heaven,  for  she  can  never  get  down  alive.  My  darling,  my  dar- 
ling!" 

Poor  Susy's  first  thought  was  to  call  out  to  Prudy,  but  her 
mother  gave  her  one  warning  glance,  and  that  was  enough  :  Susy 
neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 

Mrs.  Parlin  stood  looking  up  at  her,  —  stood  as  white  and  still 
as  if  she  had  been  frozen  !  Her  trembling  lips  moved  a  little,  but 
it  was  in  prayer ;  she  knew  that  only  God  could  save  the  precious 
one. 

While  she  was  begging  him  to  tell  her  what  to  do,  a  sudden 
thought  flashed  across  her  mind.  She  dared  not  speak,  lest  the 
sound  of  her  voice  should  startle  the  child  ;  but 'she  had  a  bunch 


42  CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

of  keys  in  her  pocket,  and  sin-  jingled  the  keys,  holding  them  up 
as  high  as  possible,  that  Prudy  might  see  what  they  were. 

When  the  little  one  heard  the  jingling,  she  looked  down  and 
smiled.  "  You  goin'  to  let  me  have  some  cake  and  'serves  in  the 
china-closet,  —  me  and  Susy  1 " 

Mrs.  Parlin  smiled,  —  such  a  smile  !  It  was  a  great  deal  Badder 
than  tears,  though  Prudy  did  not  know  that,  —  she  only  knew  that 
it  meant  "  yes." 

"  0,  then  I  'm  coming  right  down,  'cause  I  like  cake  and 
'serves.    I  won't  go  up  to  heaven  till  bime-by  !  " 

Then  she  walked  along  the  beam,  and  turned  about  to  come 
down  the  ladders.  Mrs.  Parlin  held  her  breath,  and  shut  her  eyes. 
She  dared  not  look  up,  for  she  knew  that  if  Prudy  should  take 
one  false  step,  she  must  fall  and  be  dashed  in  pieces ! 

But  Prudy  was  not  wise  enough  to  fear  anything.  0  no.  She 
was  only  thinking  very  eagerly  about  crimson  jellies  and  fruit- 
cake. She  crept  down  the  ladders  without  a  thought  of  danger,  — 
no,  more  afraid  than  a  fly  that  creeps  down  the  window-pane. 

The  air  was  so  still  that  the  sound  of  every  step  was  plainly 
heard,  as  her  little  feet  went  pat,  —  pat,  —  on  the  ladder  rounds. 
God  was  taking  care  of  her,  —  yes,  at  length  the  last  round  was 
reached,  —  she  had  got  down,  —  she  was  safe  ! 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Parlin,  as  she  held  little  Prudy  close 
to  her  heart ;  whde  Susy  jumped  for  joy,  exclaiming,  "  We  've  got 
her  !  we  've  got  her  !     0,  ain't  you  so  happy,  mamma  ?  " 

"  0  mamma,  what  you  crying  for  ? "  said  little  Prudy,  clinging 
about  her  neck.  "-Ain't  I  your'little  comfort?  —  there,  now,  you 
know  Avhat  you  speaked  about !  You  said  you  'd  get  some  cake 
and  verserves  for  me  and  Susy." 

"Sophie  May." 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  43 


MES.   "WALKER'S   BETSEY. 

IT  is  now  ten  years  since  I  spent  a  summer  in  the  little  village 
of  Cliff  Spring,  as  teacher  in  one  of  the  public  schools. 

The  village  itself  had  no  pretensions  to  beauty,  natural  or  archi- 
tectural ;  but  all  its  surroundings  were  romantic  and  lovely.  On 
one  side  was  a  winding  river,  bordered  with  beautiful  willows  ; 
and  on  the  other  a  lofty  hill,  thickly  wooded.  These  woods,  in 
spring  and  summer,  were  full  of  flowers  and  wild  vines  ;  and  a 
clear,  cold  stream,  that  had  its  birth  in  a  cavernous  recess  among 
the  ledges,  dashed  over  the  rocks,  and  after  many  windings  and 
plungings  found  its  way  to  the  river. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  wound  the  railroad  track,  at  some  points 
nearly  filling  the  space  between  the  brook  and  the  rocks,  in  others 
almost  overhung  by  the  latter.  Some  of  the  most  delightful  walks 
I  ever  knew  were  in  this  vicinity,  and  here  the  whole  school  would 
often  come  in  the  warm  weather,  for  the  Saturday's  ramble. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  summer  rambles  I  first  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey.  Not  that  her  unenviable  reputa- 
tion had  been  concealed  from  my  knowledge,  by  any  means  ;  but  as 
she  was  not  a  member  of  my  department,  and  was  a  very  irregular 
attendant  of  any  class,  she  had  never  yet  come  under  my  observa- 
tion. I  gathered  that  her  parents  had  but  lately  come  to  five  in 
Cliff  Spring  ;  that  they  were  both  ignorant  and  vicious  ;  and  that 
the  girl  was  a  sort  of  goblin  sprite,  —  such  a  compound  of  mis- 
chief and  malice  as  was  never  known  before  since  the  days  of 
witchcrcft.  Was  there  an  ugly  profile  drawn  upon  the  anteroom 
wall,  a  green  pumpkin  found  in  the  principal's  hat,  or  an  ink-bot- 
tle upset  in  the  water-bucket  1  Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey  was  the  Jrst 
and  constant  object  of  suspicion.  Did  a  teacher  find  a  pair  of 
tongs  astride  her  chair,  her  shawl  extra-bordered  with  burdocks, 


44  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PliOSE. 

her  gloves  filled  with  some  ill-scented  weed,  or  her  india-ruhhers 
cunningly  nailed  to  the  floor?  half  a  hundred  juvenile  tongues 
were  ready  to  proclaim  poor  Betsey  as  the  undoubted  delinquent; 
and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  very  few  of  these  misdemeanors 
were  actually  proved  against  her.  But  whether  proved  or  not,  she 
accepted  their  sponsorship  all  the  same,  and  laughed  at  or  defied 
her  accusers,  as  her  mood  might.be. 

That  the  girl  was  a  character  in  her  way,  shrewd  and  sensible, 
though  wholly  uncultured,  I  was  well  satisfied,  from  all  I  heard  ; 
that  she  was  sly,  intractable,  and  revengeful  I  believed,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  upon  very  insufficient  evidence. 

One  warm  afternoon  in  July,  the  sun,  which  at  morning  had 
been  clouded,  blazed  out  fiercely  at  the  hour  of  dismissal.  Shrink- 
ing from  the  prospect  of  an  unsheltered  walk,  I  looked  around  the 
shelves  of  the  anteroom  for  my  sunshade,  but  it  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  I  did  not  recollect  having  it  with  me  in  the  morning, 
and  believed  it  had  been  left  at  the  school-house  over  night.  The 
girls  of  my  class  constituted  themselves  a  committee  of  search  and 
inquiry,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  article  was  not  in  the  house  or 
yard,  and  then  my  committee  resolved  themselves  into  a  jury,  and, 
without  a  dissenting  voice,  pronounced  Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey  guilty 
of  cribbing  my  little,  old-fashioned,  but  vastly  useful  sunshade. 
She  had  been  seen  loitering  in  the  anteroom,  and  afterward  run- 
ning away  in  great  haste.  The  charge  seemed  reasonable  enough, 
but  as  I  could  not  learn  that  Betsey  had  ever  been  caught  in  a 
theft,  or  convicted  of  one,  I  requested  the  girls  to  keep  the  matter 
quiet,  for  a  few  days  at  least ;  to  which  they  unwillingly  con- 
sented. 

"  Bemember,  Miss  Burke,"  said  Alice  Way,  as  we  parted  at  her 
father's  gate,  "  you  promised  us  a  nice  walk  after  tea,  to  the  place 
in  the  wood  where  you  found  the  beautiful  phlox  yesterday.  We 
want  you  to  guide  us  straight  to  the  spot,  please." 

"  Yes,"  added  Mary  Graham,  "  and  we  will  take  our  Botanies  in 
our  baskets,  and  be  prepared  to  analyze  the  flowers,  you  know." 

My  assent  was  not  reluctantly  given  ;  and  when  the  sun  was  low 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  45 

in  the  west  we  set  forth,  walking  nearly  the  whole  distance  in  the 
shade  of  the  hill.  We  climbed  the  ridge,  rested  a  few  moments, 
and  then  started  in  search  of  the  beautiful  patch  of  Lichnidia  — 
white,  pink,  and  purple  —  that  I  had  found  the  afternoon  pre- 
vious in  taking  a  "  short  cut "  over  the  hill  to  the  house  of  a 
friend   I  was  wont  to  visit. 

"  Stop,  Miss  Burke  !  "  came  in  suppressed  tones  from  half  my 
little  group,  as,  emerging  from  a  thicket,  we  came  in  sight  of  a  queer 
object  perched  upon  a  little  mound,  among  dead  stick  and  leaves. 
It  was  a  diminutive  child,  who,  judging  from  her  face  alone,  might 
be  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age.  A  little  brown,  weird  face  it  was, 
with  keen  eyes  peering  out  from  a  stringy  mass  of  hair,  that  strag- 
gled about  distractedly  from  the  confinement  of  an  old  comb. 

"  There,"  whispered  Matty  Holmes,  "  there 's  Mrs.  Walker's 
Betsey,  I  do  declare  !  She  often  goes  home  from  school  this  way, 
which  is  shorter  ;  and  now  she  is  playing  truant.  She  '11  get  a 
whipping  if  her  mother  finds  it  out." 

"  Miss  Burke,  Miss  Burke  !  "  cried  Alice,  "  see  what  she  has  in 
her  hand  !  "     I  looked,  and  there,  to  be  sure,  was  my  lost  parasol. 

"  There,  now  !  Did  n't  we  say  so  !  "  "  Don't  she  look  guilty  1 " 
"  Were  n't  we  right  1 "  "  Impudent  thing  !  "  were  the  whispered 
ejaculations  of  my  vigilance  committee  ;  but  in  truth  the  girl's 
appearance  was  unconcerned  and  innocent  enough.  She  sat  there, 
swaying  herself  about,  opening  and  shutting  the  wonderful  "  in- 
strument," holding  it  between  her  eyes  and  the  light  to  ascertain 
the  quality  of  the  silk,  and  sticking  a  pin  in  the  handle  to  try  if 
it  were  real  ivory  or  mere  painted  wood. 

"  Let 's  dash  in  upon  her  and  see  her  scamper,"  was  the  next 
benevolent  suggestion  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  her  alone,  first.  All  of  you 
stay  here,  out  of  sight,  and  I  will  return  presently."  They  fell 
back,  dissatisfied,  and  contented  themselves  with  peeping  and  lis- 
tening, while  I  advanced  toward  the  forlorn  child.  She  started  a 
little  as  I  approached,  thrust  the  parasol  behind  her,  and  then 
pleasantly  made  room  forme  on  the  little  hillock  where  she  sat. 


4G  CUILU   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  nice  place  for  a  lounge,"  said  I,  dropping  down 
beside  her  ;  "just  large  enough  for  two,  and  softer  than  any  tete-a- 
tete  in  Mrs.  Graham's  parlor.  Now  1  should  like  to  know  your 
name  1 "  —  for  I  thought  it  best  to  feign  ignorance  of  her  ante- 
cedents. 

"  Bets,"  was  the  ready  reply. 

"  Betsey  what  1 " 

"  Bets  Walker,  mother  says,  but  I  say  Hamlin.  That  was 
father's  name.     'T  ain't  no  difference,  though  ;  it 's  Bets  any  way." 

"  Well,  Betsey,  what  do  you  suppose  made  this  little  mound  we 
are  sitting  upon '? "  I  asked,  merely  to  gain  time  to  think  how  best 
to  approach  the  other  topic. 

"  I  don'  know,"  she  answered,  looking  up  at  me  keenly. 
"  Maybe  a  rock  got  covered  up  and  growed  over,  ever  so  far  down. 
Maybe  an  Iujivn  's  buried  there." 

I  told  her  I  had  seen  larger  mounds  that  contained  Indian 
remains,  but  none  so  small  as  tlris. 

"  It  might  'a'  ben  a  baby,  though,"  she  returned,  digging  her 
brown  toes  among  the  leaves  and  winking  her  eyelids  roguishly. 
"  A  papoose,  you  know  ;  a  real  little  Injun  !  I  wish  it  had  'a'  ben 
me,  and  I  'd  'a'  ben  buried  here  ;  I  'd  'a'  liked  it  first-rate  !  Only  I 
would  n't  'a'  wanted  the  girls  should  come  and  set  over  me.  If  I 
did  n't  want  so  bad' to  get  to  read  the  books  father  left,  I  'd  never 
go  to  school  another  day."  And  her  brow  darkened  again  with 
evil  passions. 

"  Did  your  own  father  leave  you  books  ?  " 

"Yes,  real  good  ones;  only  they're  old,  and  tore  some. 
Mother  could  n't  sell  'em  for  nothin'.  so  she  lets  me  keep  'em.  She 
sold  everything  else."  Then  suddenly  changing  her  tone,  she 
asked,  slyly,  "You  hain't  lost  anything,  —  have  you?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  ;  "  I  see  you  have  my  sunshade." 

She  held  it  up,  laughing  with  boisterous  triumph.  "  You  left  it 
hanging  in  that  tree  yonder,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  low-branching 
beech  at  a  little  distance.  "  It  was  kind  o'  careless,  I  think 
S'posing  it  had  rained  !  " 


STORIES  OF  CHILD   LIFE.  47 

Astonishment  kept  me  silent.  How  could  I  have  forgotten, 
what  I  now  so  clearly  recalled,  my  hanging  the  shade  upon  a 
tree,  the  previous  afternoon,  while  I  descended  a  ravine  for  flowers  ? 
I  felt  humiliated  in  the  presence  of  the  poor  little  wronged  and 
neglected  child. 

For  many  days  after  this  the  girl  did  not  come  to  school,  nor  did 
I  once  see  her,  though  I  thought  of  her  daily  with  increasing  interest. 

During  this  time  the  principal  of  the  school  planned  an  excur- 
sion by  railroad  to  a  station  ten  miles  distant,  to  be  succeeded  by 
a  picnic  on  the  lake  shore.  Great  was  the  delight  of  the  Httle 
ones,  grown  weary  of  their  unvaried  routine  through  the  exhaust- 
ing heats  of  July.  Many  were  the  councils  called  among  the  boys, 
many  the  enthusiastic  discussions  held  among  the  girls,  and  seldom 
did  they  break  up  without  leaving  one  or  more  subjects  of  contro- 
versy unsettled.  But  upon  one  point  perfect  harmony  of  opinion 
prevailed,  and  it  was  the  only  one  against  which  I  felt  bound 
strongly  to  protest :  this  was  tbe  "decision  that  Mrs.  Walker's 
Betsey  was  quite  unnecessary  to  the  party,  and  consequently  was 
to  receive  no  notice. 

"  "Why,  Miss  Burke  !  that  looking  girl !  "  cried  Amy  Pease,  as  I 
remonstrated.  "  She  has  n't  a  thing  fit  to  wear,  — if  there  were  no 
other  reason ! "  I  reminded  her  that  Betsey  had  a  very  decent 
basque,  given  her  by  the  minister's  wife,  and  that  an  old  lawn  skirt 
of  mine  could  be  tucked  for  her  with  very  little  trouble.  "  But 
she  is  such  an  awkward,  uncouth  creature  !  She  would  mortify  us 
to  death  !  "  interposed  Hattie  Dale. 

"  She  could  carry  no  biscuits,  nor  cake,  for  she  has  no  one  to 
bake  them  for  her,"  said  another.  "  She  would  eat  enormously, 
and  make  herself  sick,"  objected  little  Nellie  Day,  a  noted  glutton. 

In  vain  I  combated  these  arguments,  offering  to  take  crackers  and 
lemons  enough  for  her  share,  and  even  urging  the  humanity  of 
allowing  her  to  make  herself  sick  upon  good  things  for  once  in  her 
poverty-stricken  life.  Some  other  teachers  joined  me  ;  but  when 
the  question  was  put  to  vote  among  the  scholars,  it  received  a  hur- 
ried negative,  as  unanimous  as  it  was  noisy. 


48  CHILD   LIFE   IN   PROSE. 

"And  now  1  think  of  it,"  added  Muttic  Price?,  the  principal's 
daughter,  "  the  Walkers  are  out  of  the  corporation,  and  so  Betsey 
has  no  real  right  among  us  at  all."     This  ended  the  matter. 

All  the  night  previous  to  the  great  excursion,  1  suffered  severely 
from  headache,  which  grew  no  better  upon  rising,  and,  as  usual, 
increased  in  violence  as  the  sun  mounted  higher  upon  its  cloudless 
course.  At  half  past  nine,  as  the  long  train  with  its  freight  of 
smiling  and  expectant  little  ones  moved  from  the  depot,  I  was 
lying  in  a  darkened  room,  with  ice-bandages  about  my  forehead, 
and  my  feverish  pillow  saturated  with  camphor  and  hartshorn. 

The  disappointment  in  itself  was  not  much.  I  needed  rest,  and 
the  utter  stillness  was  very  grateful  to  my  overtasked  nerves. 
Besides,  the  slight  put  upon  poor  Betsey  had  destroyed  much  of 
the  pleasure  of  anticipation.  I  lay  patiently  until  two  o'clock, 
when,  as  I  expected,  the  pain  abated.  At  live,  I  was  entirely  free, 
and  feeling  much  in  need  of  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air,  which  a  slight 
shower  had  cooled  and  purified. 

Choosing  the  shaded  route,  I  walked  out  upon  the  hill,  ascend- 
ing by  a  gentle  slope,  and,  book  in  hand,  sat  down  under  a  tree, 
alternately  reading  and  gazing  upon  the  sweet  rural  picture  that 
lay  before  me.  Soon  a  pleasant  languor  crept  over  me.  Dense 
wood  and  craggy  hill,  green  valley  and  gushing  brook,  faded  from 
sight  and  hearing,  and  I  was  asleep  ! 

Probably  half  an  hour  elapsed  before  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
saw  sitting  beside  me  the  same  elfish  little  figure  I  had  once  before 
encountered  in  the  wood.  The  same  stringy  hair,  the  same  sun- 
burned forehead  and  neck,  the  same  tattered  dress,  the  same  wild, 
weird-looking  eyes.  In  one  hand  she  held  my  parasol,  opened  in 
a  position  to  shade  mj  face  from  a  slanting  sunbeam  ;  with  a  small 
bush  in  the  other  she  was  protecting  me  from  mosquitoes  and 
other  insect  dangers. 

"  Well  done,  little  Genius  of  the  Wood ;  am  I  to  he  always 
indebted  to  you  for  finding  what  I  lose  1 "  I  said,  jumping  up  and 
shaking  my  dress  free  from  leaves. 

She  laughed  immoderately.     "  First  you  loss  your  shade  in  the 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  49 

woods,  and  now  you  Ve  gone  and  lost  yourself !  I  guess  you  '11 
have  to  keep  me  always,"  she  giggled,  trotting  along  beside  me.  "  I 
was  mighty  scared  when  I  see  you  lying  there,  and  the  sun  creep- 
ing round  through  the  trees,  like  a  great  red  lion,  going  to  spring 
at  you  and  eat  you  up.     I  thought  you  'd  gone  to  the  ride." 

I  explained  the  cause  of  my  detention,  and  saw  that  she  looked 
rather  pleased ;  for,  as  I  soon  drew  from  her,  she  had  been  bitterly 
disappointed  in  the  affair,  and  felt  her  rejection  very  keenly.  She 
had  come  to  this  spot  now  for  the  sole  purpose  of  peeping  from  be- 
hind some  rock  or  tree  at  the  return  of  the  merry  company,  which 
would  be  at  six  o'clock. 

"  I  coaxed  old  Walker  and  his  wife  to  let  me  have  some  green 
corn  and  cucumbers,  and  I  put  on  my  best  spencer  and  went  to  the 
depot  this  morning,  but  none  of  'em  asked  me  to  get  in.  Hal 
Price  kicked  my  basket  over,  too  !  I  s'pose  I  was  n't  dressed  fine 
enough.  They  all  wore  their  Sunday  things.  I  wish  't  would'  rain 
and  spile  'em.     I  do  —  so  I " 

I  tried  to  console  her,  but  she  refused  to  listen,  and  went  on 
with  a  fierce  tirade,  enumerating  sundry  disastrous  events  which 
she  "  wished  would  happen  :  she  did  so  ! "  and  giving  vent  to 
many  very  unchristian  but  very  childlike  denunciations. 

All  on  a  sudden  she  stopped,  and  we  simultaneously  raised  our 
heads  anil  listened.  It  was  a  deep,  grinding,  crashing  sound,  as  of 
rocks  sliding  over  and  past  each  other ;  then  a  crackling,  as  of 
roots  and  branches  twisted  and  wrenched,  from  their  places  ;  then  a 
jar,  heavy  and  terrible,  that  reverberated  through  the  forest,  mak- 
ing the  earth  quake  beneath  our  feet,  and  all  the  leafy  branches 
tremble  above  us.  We  knew  it  instantly  ;  there  had  been  a  heavy 
fall  of  rock  not  far  from  us  ;  and  with  one  exclamation,  we  started 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

The  place  was  reached  in  a  moment  ;  an  enormous  mass  of  rock 
and  earth,  in  which  many  small  trees  were  growing,  had  fallen 
directly  upon  the  railroad  track,  and  that  too  at  a  point  where  the 
stream  wound  nearest,  and  its  bank  made  a  steep  descent  upon  the 
other  side. 

3  t 


50  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

Dreadful  as  the  spectacle  was  to  me  through  apprehension  for 

the  coming  train,  I  could  only  notice  at  that  moment  the  wonder- 
ful change  in  Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey.  She  leaped  about  among  the 
rocks,  shrieking  and  wringing  her  hands  ;  she  grasped  the  up- 
rooted trees,  tugging  wildly  at  them  till  the  veins  swelled  purple 
in  her  forehead,  and  her  Hying  hair  looked  as  if  every  separate 
fibre  writhed  with  horror.  I  had  imagined  before  what  the  aspect 
of  that  strange  little  face  might  lie  in  terror  ;  now  I  saw  it,  and 
knew  what  a  powerful  nature  lay  hidden  in  that  cramped,  unde- 
veloped form. 

This  lasted  but  a  moment,  however.  Then  came  to  both  the 
soberer  thought,  What  is  to  be  done  i  It  appeared  that  we  were 
sole  witnesses  of  the  accident ;  and  though  the  crash  might  have 
been  heard  at  the  village,  who  would  think  of  a  land  slide  ?  and 
upon  the  railroad  ! 

Ten  minutes  must  have  elapsed  before  we  could  give  the  alarm, 
and  in  less  time  than  that  the  cars  were  due.  In  that  speechless 
breathless  moment,  before  my  duller  ear  perceived  it,  Betsey  caught 
the  sound  of  the  approaching  train,  deadened  as  it  was  by  th,  hill 
that  lay  between  us.  It  was  advancing  at  great  speed  ;  rushing 
on,  —  all  that  freight  of  joyous  human  life,  —  rushing  on  to  certain 
destruction,  into  the  very  jaws  of  Death  ! 

I  was  utterly  paralyzed  !     Xot  so  Mrs.  "Walker's  Betsey. 

"  I  'm  agoin'  to  run  and  yell"  she  said,  and  was  off  upon  the 
instant.  Screaming  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  keeping  near  the 
edge  of  the  bank,  where  she  could  be  soonest  seen  from  the  ap- 
proaching train,  plunging  through  the  underbrush,  leaping  over 
rocks,  she  dashed  on  to  meet  the  cars.  "  Fire  !  Fire  !  Murder  ! 
Stop  thieves !  Hollo  the  house  !  Thieves  !  Mad  dogs  !  Get  out 
of  the  way,  Old  Dan  Tucker  !  "  were  only  a  few  of  the  variations 
of  her  warning  voice. 

I  followed  as  I  could,  seemingly  in  a  sort  of  nightmare  ;  won- 
dering why  I  did  not  scream,  yet  incapable  of  making  a  sound  ; 
expecting  every  moment  to  fall  upon  the  rocks,  yet  taking  my  steps 
with  a  sureness  and  rapidity  that  astonished  me  even  then. 

Betsey's  next  move  was  to  run  back  to  me  and  tear  my  shawl 


STOMIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


51 


■  a  light   crape   of   a  bright  crimson   color, 
a    small    sapling    by  throwing    her    whole 


from  my  shoulders,  - 
Then  bending  down 
weight  upon  it,  she  spread  the  shawl  upon  its  top  and  allowed 
it  to  rebound.  She  called  me  to  shake  the  tree,  which  I  did 
vigorously.  It  stood  at  an  angle  of  the  road,  upon  a  bank 
which  commanded  a  long  view,  and  was  a  most  appropriate  place 
to  erect  a  signal.  Then  leaping  upon  the  track,  she  bounded 
on  like  a  deer,  shouting  and  gesticulating  with  redoubled  energy 
now  that  the  train  appeared  in  sight. 


-^"'.wtssO,;..,. 


It  was  soon  evident'that  the  engineer  was  neither  blind  nor  deaf, 
for  the  brakes  were  speedily  applied,  and  the  engine  was  reversed. 
Still  it  dashed  on  at  fearful  velocity,  and  Betsey  turned  and  ran 
back  toward  the  obstructed  place  in  an  agony  of  excitement. 
Gradually  the  speed  lessened,  the  wheels  obeyed  their  checks,  and 
when  at  last  they  came  to  a  full  stop  the  cow-catcher  was  within 
four  feet  of  the  rock. 


52  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PItOSJE. 

Many,  seeing  the  danger,  had  already  leaped  off;  many  more, 
terrified,  and  scarcely  conscious  of  the  real  nature  of  the  danger, 
crowded  the  platforms,  and  pushed  off  those  before  them.  It  was 
a  scene  of  wildest  confusion,  in  the  midst  of  which  my  heart  sent 
up  only  the  quivering  cry  of  joy,  "  Saved,  saved  !  "  Betsey  had 
climbed  half-way  up  the  bank,  and  thrown  herself  exhausted  upon 
the  loose  gravel,  with  her  apron  drawn  over  her  head.  I  picked 
my  way  down  to  the  train  to  assist  the  frightened  children.  Mr. 
Price,  the  principal,  was  handing  out  his  own  three  children,  and 
teachers  and  pupils  followed  in  swarms. 

"  Now,  Miss  Burke,"  said  the  principal,  in  a  voice  that  grew 
strangely  tremulous  as  he  looked  at  the  frightful  mass  before  him, 
"  I  want  to  hear  who  it  was  that  gave  the  alarm,  and  saved  us  from 
this  hideous  fate.  Was  it  you  1  "  I  believe  I  never  felt  a  glow  of 
truer  pleasure  than  then,  as  I  answered  quickly  :  "  I  had  nothing 
to  do  with  saving  you,  Mr.  Price.  I  take  no  credit  in  the  matter. 
The  person  to  whom  your  thanks  are  due  sits  on  the  bank  yonder, 
—  Mrs.  Walker's  Betsey  !  " 

Every  eye  wandered  toward  the  crouching  figure,  who,  with 
head  closely  covered,  appeared  indifferent  to  everything.  Mr. 
Price  opened  his  portemonnaie.  "  Here  are  ten  dollars,"  he  said, 
"  which  I  wish  you  to  give  the  girl  for  inyself  and  children.  Tell 
her  that,  as  a  school,  she  will  hear  from  us  again." 

I  went  to  Betsey's  side,  put  the  money  in  her  hand,  and  tried  to 
make  her  uncover  her  face.  But  she  resolutely  refused  to  do  more 
than  peep  through  one  of  the  rents  in  her  apron,  as  the  whole 
school  slowly  and  singly  defiled  past  her  in  the  narrow  space  be- 
tween the  train  and  the  bank.  A  more  crestfallen  multitude  I 
never  saw,  and  the  eyes  that  ventured  to  look  upon  the  prostrate 
figure  as  they  passed  within  a  few  feet  of  her  had  shame  and  con- 
trition in  their  glances.  Once  only  she  whispered,  as  a  haughty- 
looking  boy  went  past,  "  That  's  the  boy  that  kicked  over  my 
basket.     I  wish  I  'd  'a'  let  him  gone  to  smash  !     I  do  —  so  !  " 

The  children  climbed  over  the  rocks  and  went  to  then'  homes 
sadder  and  wiser  for  their  lesson,  and  in  twenty-four'  hours  the 
track  was  again  free  from  all  obstruction. 


STORIES   OF   CHILD  LIFE.  53 

The  principal,  though  a  man  but  little  inclined  to  look  for  the 
angel  side  of  such  unprepossessing  humanity  as  Mrs.  Walker's 
Betsey,  had  too  strong  a  sense  of  justice,  and  too  much  gratitude 
for  his  children's  spared  lives,  not  to  make  a  very  affecting  appeal 
to  the  assembled  school  on  the  day  following.  A  vote  to  consider 
her  a  member  of  the  school,  and  entitled  to  all  its  privileges,  met 
with  no  opposition  ;  and  a  card  of  thanks,  drawn  up  in  feeling 
terms,  received  the  signature  of  every  pupil  and  teacher.  A  purse 
was  next  made  up  for  her  by  voluntary  contributions,  amounting 
to  twenty  dollars  ;  and  to  this  were  added  a  new  suit,  a  quantity  of 
books,  and  a  handsome  red  shawl,  in  which  her  brunette  skin  and 
nicely  combed  jetty  hair  appeared  to  great  advantage. 

Betsey  bore  her  honors  meekly,  and,  no  longer  feeling  that  she 
was  regarded  as  an  intruder,  came  regularly  to  school,  learned 
rapidly,  and  in  her  neat  dress  and  improved  manners  gradually  be- 
came an  attractive,  as  she  certainly  was  a  most  intelligent  child. 

In  less  than  a  year  her  mother  died,  and  her  drunken  step-father 
removed  to  the  far  West,  leaving  her  as  a  domestic  in  a  worthy 
and  wealthy  family  in  Cliff  Spring. 

The  privileges  of  school  were  still  granted  her,  and  amid  the 
surroundings  of  comfort  and  refinement  the  change  from  Mrs. 
Walker's  Betsey  to  Lizzie  Hamlin  became  still  more  apparent. 
She  rapidly  rose  from  one  class  to  another,  and  is  now  employed 
in  the  very  school,  and  teaches  the  youngest  brothers  and  sisters 
of  the  very  scholars  who,  ten  years  ago,  voted  her  a  "  nuisance  " 
and  a  plague. 

There  is  truth  in  the  old  rhyme,  — 

"  It  is  n't  all  iu  bringing  up, 
Let  men  say  what  they  will  ; 
Neglect  may  dim  a  silver  cup,  — 
It  will  be  silver  still !  " 

Helen  B.  Bostwick. 


54 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  MUSE. 


THE  RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


OXE  summer  afternoon,  when  I  was  about  eight  years  of  age, 
I  was  standing  at  an  eastern  window,  looking  at  a  beautiful 
rainbow  that,  bending  from  the  sky,  seemed  to  be  losing  itself  in 
a  thick,  swampy  wood  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  We 
had  just  had  a  thunder-storm  ;  but  now  the  dark  heavens  had 
cleared  up,  a  fresh  breeze  was  blowing  from  the  south,  the  rose- 
bushes by  the  window  were  dashing  rain-drops  against  the  panes, 
the  robins  were  singing  merrily  from  the  cherry-trees,  and  all  was 
brighter  and  pleasanter  than  ever.  It  happened  that  no  one  was 
in  the  room  with  me,  then,  but  my  brother  Rufus,  who  was  just 
recovering  from  a  severe  illness,  and  was  sitting,  propped  up  with 
pdlows,  in  an  easy-chair,  looking  out,  with  me,  at  the  rainbow. 

"  See,  brother,"  I  said,  "  it  drops  right  down  among  the  cedars, 
where  we  go  in  the  spring  to  find  wintergreens  !  " 

"  Do  you  know,  Grade,"  said  my  brother,  with  a  very  serious 
face,  "  that,  if  you  should  go  to  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  you  would 
find  there  purses  filled  with  money,  and  great  pots  of  gold  and 
silver  1 " 

"  Is  it  truly  so  1 "  I  asked. 

"  Truly  so,"  answered  my  brother,  with  a  smile.  Xow,  I  was  a 
simple-hearted  child  who  believed  everything  that  was  told  me, 


STORIES   OF   CHILD  LIFE.  55 

although  I  was  again  and  again  imposed  upon  ;  so,  without  another 
word,  I  darted  out  of  the  door  and  set  forth  toward  the  wood.  My 
brother  called  after  me  as  loudly  as  he  was  able,  but  I  did  not 
heed  him.  I  cared  nothing  for  the  wet  grass,  which  was  sadly 
drabbling  my  clean  frock  ;  on  and  on  I  ran ;  I  was  so  sure  that  I 
knew  just  where  that  rainbow  ended.  I  remember  how  glad  and 
proud  I  was  in  my  thoughts,  and  what  fine  presents  I  promised  to 
all  my  friends  out  of  my  great  riches.  « 

So  thinking,  and  laying  delightful  plans,  almost  before  I  knew 
it  I  had  reached  the  cedar-grove,  and  the  end  of  the  rainbow  was 
not  there  !  But  I  saw  it  shining  down  among  the  trees  a  little 
farther  off;  so  on  and  on  I  struggled,  through  the  thick  bushes 
and  over  logs,  till  I  came  within  the  sound  of  a  stream  winch  ran 
through  the  swamp.  Then  I  thought,  "  What  if  the  rainbow 
should  come  down  right  into  the  middle  of  that  deep,  muddy 
brook  !  "  Ah  !  but  I  was  frightened  for  my  heavy  pots  of  gold 
and  silver,  and  my  purses  of  money.  How  should  I  ever  find 
them  there  1  and  what  a  time  I  should  have  getting  them  out !  I 
reached  the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  "  the  end  was  not  yet."  But 
I  could  see  it  a  little  way  off  on  the  other  side.  I  crossed  the 
creek  on  a  fallen  tree,  and  still  ran  on,  though  my  limbs  seemed 
to  give  way,  and  my  side  ached  with  fatigue.  The  woods  grew 
thicker  and  darker,  the  ground  more  wet  and  swampy,  and  I  found, 
as  many  grown  people  had  found  before  me,  that  there  was  rather 
hard  travelling  in  a  journey  after  riches.  Suddenly  I  met  in  my 
way  a  large  porcupine,  who  made  himself  still  larger  when  he  saw 
me,  as  a  cross  cat  raises  its  back  and  makes  tails  at  a  dog.  Fear- 
ing that  he  would  shoot  his  sharp  quills  at  me,  and  hit  me  all  over, 
I  ran  from  him  as  fast  as  my  tired  feet  would  carry  me. 

In  my  fright  and  hurry  I  forgot  to  keep  my  eye  on  the  rainbow, 
as  I  had  done  before  ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  remembered  and  looked 
for  it,  it  was  nowhere  in  sight !  It  had  quite  faded  away.  When 
I  saw  that  it  was  indeed  gone,  I  burst  into  tears  ;  for  I  had  lost  all 
my  treasures,  and  had  nothing  to  show  for  my  pilgrimage  but  muddy 
feet  and  a  wet  and  torn  frock.      So  I  set  out  for  home. 


56  CHILD    LIFE   L\   PROSE. 

But  I  soon  found  that  my  troubles  had  only  begun  ;  I  coulil  not 
find  my  way ;  I  was  lost.  I  could  not  tell  which  was  east  or 
west,  north  or  south,  but  wandered  about  hero  and  there,  cry- 
ing and  calling,  though  I  knew  that  no  one  could  hear  me. 

All  at  once  I  heard  voices  shouting  and  hallooing  ;  but,  instead 
of  being  rejoiced  at  this,  I  was  frightened,  fearing  that  the  Indians 
were  upon  me  !  I  crawled  under  some  bushes,  by  the  side  of  a 
large  log,  and  kiy  perfectly  still.  I  was  wet,  cold,  scaled, — alto- 
gether very  miserable  indeed ;  yet,  when  the  voices  came  near,  I 
did  not  start  up  and  show  myself. 

At  last  I  heard  my  own  name  called  ;  but  I  remembered  that 
Indians  were  very  cunning,  and  thought  they  might  have  found 
it  out  some  way  ;  so  I  did  not  answer.  Then  came  a  voice 
near  me,  that  sounded  like  that  of  my  eldest  brother,  who  lived 
away  from  home,  and  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  many  months  ; 
but  I  dared  not  believe  the  voice  was  his.  Soon  some  one  sprang 
up  on  to  the  log  by  which  I  lay,  and  stood  there  calling.  I  could 
not  see  his  face  ;  I  could  only  see  the  tips  of  his  toes,  but  by  them 
I  saw  that  he  wore  a  nice  pair  of  boots,  and  not  moccasins.  Yet 
I  remembered  that  some  Indians  dressed  like  white  folks.  I  knew 
a  young  chief  who  was  quite  a  dandy  ;  who  not  only 

"  Got  him  a  coat  and  breeches, 
And  looked  like  a  Christian  man," 

but  actually  wore  a  fine  ruffled  shirt  outside  of  all.  So  I  still 
kept  quiet,  till  I  heard  shouted  over  me  a  pet  name,  which  this 
brother  had  given  me.     It  was  the  funniest  name  in  the  world. 

I  knew  that  no  Indian  knew  of  the  name,  as  it  was  a  little 
family  secret ;  so  I  sprang  up,  and  caught  my  brother  about  the 
ankles.  I  hardly  think  that  an  Onondaga  could  have  given  a 
louder  yell  than  he  gave  then ;  and  he  jumped  so  that  he  fell  off 
the  log  down  by  my  side.  But  nobody  was  hurt  :  and.  after  kiss- 
ing me  till  he  had  kissed  away  all  my  tears,  he  hoisted  me  on  to 
his  shoulder,  called  my  other  brothers,  who  were  bunting  in  differ- 
ent directions,  and  we  all  set  out  for  home. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


57 


I  had  been  gone  nearly  three  hours,  and  had  wandered  a  num- 
ber of  miles.  My  brother  Joseph's  coming  and  asking  for  me  had 
first  set  them  to  inquiring  and  searching  me  out. 

When  I  went  into  the  room  where  my  brother  Rufus  sat,  he 
said,  "Why,  my  poor  little  sister !  I  did  not  mean  to  send  you  off 
on  such  a  wild-goose  chase  to  the  end  of  the  rainbow.  I  thought 
you  would  know  I  was  only  quizzing  you." 

Then  my  eldest  brother  took  me  on  his  knee,  and-  told  me  what 
the  rainbow  really  was  :  that  it  was  only  painted  air,  and  did  not 
rest  on  the  earth,  so  nobody  coidd  ever  find  the  end ;  and  that 
God  had  set  it  in  the  cloud  to  remind  him  and  us  of  his  promise 
never  again  to  drown  the  world  with  a  flood. 

"  0,  I  think  God's  promise  would  be  a  beautiful  name  for  the 
rainbow  !  "  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  my  mother,  "  but  it  tells  us  something  more 
than  that  he  will  not  send  great  floods  upon  the  earth,  —  it  tells 
us  of  his  beautiful  love  always  bending  over  us  from  the  skies. 
And  I  trust  that  when  my  little  girl  sets  forth  on  a  pdgrimage  to 
find  God's  love,  she  will"  be  led  by  the  rainbow  of  his  promise 
through  all  the  dark  places  of  this  world  to  '  treasures  laid  up  in 
heaven,'  better,  far  better,  than  silver  or  gold." 

Grace  Greenwood. 


58 


CHILD    LIFE  IN  I'liOHE. 


OX   WHITE   ISLAXD. 

"  TTELL  remember  my  first  sight  of  White  Island,  where  we 
J-  took  up  our  abode  on  leaving  the  mainland.  I  was  scarcely 
five  years  old  ;  but  from  the  upper  windows  of  our  dwelling  in 
Portsmouth  I  had  been  shown  the  clustered  masts  of  ships  lying 
at  the  wharves  along  the  Piscataqua  Eiver,  faintly  outlined  against 
the  sky,  and,  baby  as  I  was,  even  then  I  was  drawn  with  a  vague 
longing  seaward.     How  delightful  was  that  long,  first  sail  to  the 


Isles  of  Shoals  !  How  pleasant  the  unaccustomed  sound  of  the  in- 
cessant ripple  against  the  boat-side,  the  sight  of  the  wide  water  and 
limitless  sky,  the  warmth  of  the  broad  sunshine  that  made  us 
blink  like  young  sandpipers  as  we  sat  in  triumph,  perched  among 


STORIES  OF  CHILD   LIFE.  59 

the  household  goods  with  which  the  little  craft  was  laden  !  It  was 
at  sunset  that  we  were  set  ashore  on  that  loneliest,  lovely  rock,  where 
the  lighthouse  looked  down  on  us  like  some  tall,  black-capped  giant, 
and  filled  me  with  awe  and  wonder.  At  its  base  a  few  goats  were 
grouped  on  the  rock,  standing  out  dark  against  the  red  sky  as  I 
looked  up  at  them.  The  stars  were  beginning  to  twinkle ;  the 
wind  blew  cold,  charged  with  the  sea's  sweetness ;  the  sound  of 
many  waters  half  bewildered  me.  Some  one  began  to  light  the 
lamps  in  the  tower.  Rich  red  and  golden,  they  swung  round  in 
mid-air ;  everything  was  strange  and  fascinating  and  new.  We 
entered  the  quaint  little  old  stone  cottage  that  was  for  six  years  our 
home.  How  curious  it  seemed,  with  its  low,  whitewashed  ceiling, 
and  deep  window-seats,  showing  the  great  thickness  of  the  walls 
made  to  withstand  the  breakers,  with  whose  force  we  soon  grew 
acquainted  !  A  blissful  home  the  little  house  became  to  the  chil- 
dren who  entered  it  that  quiet  evening  and  slept  for  the  first  time 
lulled  by  the  murmur  of  the  encircling  sea.  I  do  not  think  a 
happier  triad  ever  existed  than  we  were,  living  hi  that  profound 
isolation.  It  takes  so  little  to  make  a  healthy  child  happy  ;  and 
we  never  wearied  of  our  few  resources.  True,  the  winters  seemed 
as  long  as  a  whole  year  to  our  little  minds,  but  they  were  pleasant, 
nevertheless.  Into  the  deep  window-seats  we  climbed,  and  with 
pennies  (for  which  we  had  no  other  use)  made  round  holes  in  the 
thick  frost,  breathing  on  them  till  they  were  warm,  and  peeped  out 
at  the  bright,  fierce,  windy  weather,  watching  the  vessels  scudding 
over  the  intensely  dark  blue  sea,  all  feather-white  where  the 
short  waves  broke  hissing  in  the  cold,  and  the  sea-fowd  soaring 
aloft  or  tossing  on  the  water ;  or,  in  calmer  days,  we  saw  how  the 
stealthy  Star-Islander  paddled  among  the  ledges,  or  lay  for  hours 
stretched  on  the  wet  sea-weed,  watching  for  wild-fowl  with  his 
gun.  Sometimes  the  round  head  of  a  seal  moved  about  among 
the  kelp-covered  rocks. 

In  the  long,  covered  walk  that  bridged  the  gorge  between  the 
lighthouse  and  the  house  we  played  in  stormy  days,  and  every 
evening  it  was  a  fresh  excitement  to   watch  the  lighting  of  the 


60  CHILD  LIFE   IX  PROSE. 

lamps,  and  think  how  for  the  lighthouse  sent  its  rays,  and  how 
many  hearts  it  gladdened  with  assurance  of  safety.  As  I  grew 
older,  1  was  allowed  to  kindle  the  lamps  sometimes  myself.  That 
was  indeed  a  pleasure.  >So  little  a  creature  as  I  might  do  that  much 
for. the  great  world!  We  waited  for  the  spring  with  an  eager 
longing  ;  the  advent  of  the  growing  grass,  the  birds  and  flowers 
and  insect  life,  the  soft  skies  and  softer  winds,  the  everlasting 
beauty  of  the  thousand  tender  tints  that  clothed  the  world,  — 
these  things  brought  us  unspeakable  bliss.  To  the  heart  of  Mature 
one  must  needs  be  drawn  in  such  a  life  ;  and  very  soon  I  learned 
how  richly  she  repays  in  deep  refreshment  the  reverent  love  of  her 
worslupper.  With  the  first  warm  days  we  built  our  little  moun- 
tains of  wet  gravel  on  the  beach,  and  danced  after  the  sandpipers 
at  the  edge  of  the  foam,  shouted  to  the  gossiping  kittiwakes  that 
fluttered  above,  or  watched  the  pranks  of  the  burgomaster  gull,  or 
cried  to  the  crying  loons.  The  gannet's  long  white  wings  stretched 
overhead,  perhaps,  or  the  dusky  shag  made  a  sudden  shadow  in 
mid-air,  or  we  startled  on .  some  lonely  ledge  the  great  blue  heron 
that  flew  off,  trailing  legs  and  wings,  stork-like,  against  the  clouds. 
Or,  in  the  sunshine  on  the  bare  rocks,  we  cut  from  the  broad, 
brown  leaves  of  the  slippery,  varnished  kelps,  grotesque  shapes  of 
man  and  bird  and  beast,  that  withered  in  the  wind  and  blew 
away  ;  or  we  fashioned  rude  boats  from  bits  of  driftwood,  manned 
them  with  a  weird  crew  of  kelpies,  and  set  them  adrift  on  the  great 
deep,  to  float  we  cared  not  whither. 

We  played  with  the  empty  limpet-shells  ;  they  were  mottled 
gray  and  brown,  like  the  song-sparrow's  breast.  We  launched 
fleets  of  purple  mussel-shells  on  the  still  pools  in  the  rocks,  left  by 
the  tide,  —  pools  that  were  like  bits  of  fallen  rainbow  with  the 
wealth  of  the  sea,  with  tints  of  delicate  sea-weed,  crimson  and 
green  and  ruddy  brown  and  violet  ;  where  wandered  the  pearly 
eolis  with  rosy  spines  and  fairy  horns,  and  the  large  round  sea- 
urchins,  like  a  boss  upon  a  shield,  were  fastened  here  and  there  on 
the  rock  at  the  bottom,  putting  out  from  their  green,  prickly  spikes 
transparent  tentacles  to  seek  their  invisible  food.     Rosy  and  lilac 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  61 

star-fish  clung  to  the  sides  ;  in  some  dark  nook  perhaps  a  holothuria 
unfolded  its  perfect  ferns,  a  lovely,  warm  huff  color,  delicate  as 
frost-work  ;  little  forests  of  coralline  moss  grew  up  in  stillness,  gold- 
colored  shells  crept  ahout,  and  now  and  then  flashed  the  silver- 
darting  fins  of  slender  minnows.  The  dimmest  recesses  were 
haunts  of  sea-anemones  that  opened  wide  their  starry  flowers  to 
the  flowing  tide,  or  drew  themselves  together,  and  hung  in  large, 
half-transparent  drops,  like  clusters  of  some  strange,  amber-colored 
fruit,  along  tho  crevices  as  the  water  ebbed  away.  Sometimes  we 
were  cruel  enough  to  capture  a  female  lobster  hiding  in  a  deep 
cleft,  with  her  millions  of  mottled  eggs  ;  or  we  laughed  to  see  the 
hermit-crabs  challenge  each  other,  and  come  out  and  fight  a  deadly 
battle  till  the  stronger  overcame,  and,  turning  the  weaker  topsy- 
turvy, possessed  himself  of  his  ampler  cockle-shell,  and  scuttled 
off  with  it  triumphant. 

I  remember  in  the  spring  kneeling  on  the  ground  to  seek  the 
first  blades  of  gTass  that  pricked  through  the  soil,  and  bringing 
them  into  the  house  to  study  and  wonder  over.  Better  than  a 
shop  full  of  toys  they  were  to  me  !  "Whence  came  their  color  1 
How  did  they  draw  their  sweet,  refreshing  tint  from  the  brown 
earth,  or  the  limpid  air,  or  the  white  light ']  Chemistry  was  not 
at  hand  to  answer  me,  and  all  her  wisdom  would  not  have  dis- 
pelled the  wonder.  Later  the  little  scarlet  pimpernel  charmed  me. 
It  seemed  more  than  a  flower;  it  was  like  a  human  tiling.  I 
knew  it  by  its  homely  name  of  poor-man's  weather-glass.  It  was 
so  much  wiser  than  I,  for  when  the  sky  was  yet  without  a  cloud, 
softly  it  clasped  its  little  red  petals  together,  folding  its  golden 
heart  in  safety  from  the  shower  that  was  sure  to  come !  How 
could  it  know  so  much?  Here  is  a  question  science  cannot 
answer.  The  pimpernel  grows  everywhere  about  the  islands,  in 
every  cleft  and  cranny  where  a  suspicion  of  sustenance  for  its 
slender  root  can  lodge  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of 
flowers,  so  rich  in  color,  so  quaint  and  dainty  in  its  method  of 
growth.  I  never  knew  its  silent  warning  fail.  I  wondered  much 
how  every  flower  knew  what  to  do  and  to  be  :  why  the  morning- 


62  OEILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

glory  did  n't  forget  sometimes,  and  bear  a  cluster  of  elder-bloom, 
or  the  elder  hang  out  pennons  of  gold  and  purple  like  the  iris,  or 
the  golden-rod  suddenly  blaze  out  a  scarlet  plume,  the  color  of  the 
pimpernel,  was  a  mystery  to  my  childish  thought.     And  why  did 

the  sweet  wild  primrose  wait  till  after  sunset  to  unclose  its  pale 
yellow  buds  ;  why  did  it  unlock  its  treasure  of  rich  perfume  to 
the  night  alone  ] 

Few  flowers  bloomed  for  me  upon  the  lonesome  rock ;  but 
I  made  the  most  of  all  I  had,  and  neither  knew  of  nor  de- 
sired more.  Ah,  how  beautiful  they  were  !  Tiny  stars  of  crim- 
son sorrel  threaded  on  their  long  brown  stems ;  the  blackberry 
blossoms  in  bridal  white  ;  the  surprise  of  the  blue-eyed  grass ;  the 
crowfoot  flowers,  like  drops  of  yellow  gold  spilt  about  among  the 
short  grass  and  over  the  moss ;  the  rich,  blue-purple  beach-pea, 
the  sweet,  spiked  germander,  and  the  homely,  delightful  yarrow 
that  grows  thickly  on  all  the  islands.  Sometimes  its  broad  clus- 
ters of  dull  white  bloom  are  stained  a  lovely  reddish-purple,  as  if 
with  the  light  of  sunset.  I  never  saw  it  colored  so  elsewhere. 
Dandelions,  buttercups,  and  clover  were  not  denied  to  us  ;  though 
we  had  no  daisies  nor  violets  nor  wild  roses,  no  asters,  but  gorgeous 
spikes  of  golden-rod,  and  wonderful  wild  morning-glories,  whose 
long,  pale  ivory  buds  I  used  to  find  in  the  twilight,  glimmering 
among  the  dark  leaves,  waiting  for  the  touch  of  dawn  to  unfold 
and  become  each  an  exquisite  incarnate  blush,  —  the  perfect  color 
of  a  South  Sea  shell.  They  ran  wild,  knotting  and  twisting  about 
the  rocks,  and  smothering  the  loose  boulders  in  the  gorges  with 
lush  green  leaves  and  pink  blossoms. 

Man}'  a  summer  morning  have  I  crept  out  of  the  still  house 
before  any  one  was  awake,  and,  wrapping  myself  closely  from  the 
chill  wind  of  dawn,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  high  cliff  called  the 
Head  to  watch  the  sunrise.  Pale  grew  the  lighthouse  flame  before 
the  broadening  day  as,  nestled  in  a  crevice  at  the  cliffs  edge,  I 
watched  the  shadows  draw  away  and  morning  break.  Facing  the 
east  and  south,  with  all  the  Atlantic  before  me,  what  happiness  was 
mine  as  the  deepening  rose-color  flushed  the  delicate  cloud-flocks 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LTFE. 


63 


that  dappled  the  sky,  where  the  gulls  soared,  rosy  too,  while  the 
calm  sea  blushed  beneath.  Or  perhaps  it  was  a  cloudless  sunrise 
with  a  sky  of  orange-red,  and  the  sea-line  silver-blue  against  it, 
peaceful  as  heaven.  Infinite  variety  of  beauty  always  awaited  me, 
and  filled  me  with  an  absorbing,  unreasoning  joy  such  as  makes  the 
song-sparrow  sing,  —  a  sense  of  perfect  bliss.  Coming  back  in  the 
sunshine,  the  morning-glories  would  lift  up  their  faces,  all  awake, 
to  my  adoring  gaze.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  gathered  the  peace 
of  the  golden  morning  in  their  still  depths  even  as  my  heart  had 
gathered  it. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


G4  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PIcOHE. 


THE    CEUISE   OF   THE   DOLPHIN". 

EVEBY  Eivermouth  boy  looks  upon  the  sea  as  being  in  some 
way  mixed  up  with  his  destiny.  While  lie  is  yet  a  baby 
lying  in  his  cradle,  he  hears  the  dull,  far-off  boom  of  the  breakers  ; 
when  he  is  older,  he  wanders  by  the  sandy  shore,  watching  tin- 
waves  that  come  plunging  up  the  beach  like  white-maned  sea- 
horses, as  Thoreau  calls  them  ;  his  eye  follows  the  lessening  sail  as 
it  fades  into  the  blue  horizon,  and  he  burns  for  the  time  when  he 
shall  stand  on  the  quarter-deck  of  his  own  ship,  and  go  sailing 
proudly  across  that  mysterious  waste  of  waters. 

Then  the  town  itself  is  full  of  hints  and  flavors  of  the  sea. 
The  gables  and  roofs  of  the  houses  facing  eastward  are  covered 
with  red  rust,  like  the  flukes  of  old  anchors ;  a  salty  smell  per- 
A'ades  the  air,  and  dense  gray  fogs,  the  very  breath  of  Ocean,  peri- 
odically creep  up  into  the  quiet  streets  and  envelop  everything. 
The  terrific  storms  that  lash  the  coast ;  the  kelp  and  spars,  and 
sometimes  the  bodies  of  drowned  men,  tossed  on  shore  by  the 
scornful  waves  ;  the  shipyards,  the  wharves,  and  the  tawny  fleet 
of  fishing-smacks  yearly  fitted  out  at  Eivermouth,  —  these  tilings, 
and  a  hundred  other,  feed  the  imagination  and  fill  the  brain  of 
every  healthy  boy  with  dreams  of  adventure.  He  learns  to  swim 
almost  as  soon  as  he  can  walk ;  he  draws  in  with  his  mother's 
milk  the  art  of  handling  an  oar  :  he  is  born  a  sailor,  whatever  he 
may  turn  out  to  be  afterwards. 

To  own  the  whole  or  a  portion  of  a  row-boat  is  his  earliest  am- 
bition. Xo  wonder  that  I,  born  to  this  life,  and  coming  back  to 
it  with  freshest  sympathies,  should  have  caught  the  prevailing 
infection.  No  wonder  I  longed  to  buy  a  part  of  the  trim  little 
sail-boat  Dolphin,  which  chanced  just  then  to  be  in  the  market. 
This  was  in  the  latter  part  of  May. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  65 

Three  shares,  at  five  or  six  dollars  each,  I  forget  which,  had 
already  heen  taken  by  Phil  Adams,  Fred  Langdon,  and  Binny 
Wallace.  The  fourth  and  remaining  share  hung  fire.  Unless  a 
purchaser  could  be  found  for  this,  the  bargain  was  to  fall  through. 

I  am  afraid  I  required  but  slight  urging  to  join  in  the  invest- 
ment. I  had  four  dollars  and  fifty  cents  on  hand,  and  the  treasurer 
of  the  Centipedes  advanced  me  the  balance,  receiving  my  silver 
pencil-case  as  ample  security.  It  was  a  proud  moment  when  I  stood 
on  the  wharf  with  my  partners,  inspecting  the  Dolphin,  moored 
at  the  foot  of  a  very  slippery  flight  of  steps.  She  was  painted 
white  with  a  green  stripe  outside,  and  on  the  stern  a  yellow  dolphin, 
with  its  scarlet  mouth  wide  open,  stared  with  a  surprised  expression 
at  its  own  reflection  in  the  water.     The  boat  was  a  great  bargain. 

I  whirled  my  cap  in  the  air,  and  ran  to  the  stairs  leading  down 
from  the  wharf,  when  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  my  shoulder.  I 
turned,  and  faced  Captain  Gutter.  I  never  saw  such  an  old  sharp- 
eye  as  he  was  in  those  days. 

I  knew  he  would  n't  be  angry  with  me  for  buying  a  row-boat ; 
but  I  also  knew  that  the  little  bowsprit  suggesting  a  jib,  and  the 
tapering  mast  ready  for  its  few  square  yards  of  canvas,  were  trifles 
not  likely  to  meet  his  approval.  As  far  as  rowing  on  the  river, 
among  the  wharves,  was  concerned,  the  Captain  had  long  since 
withdrawn  his  decided  objections,  having  convinced  himself,  by 
going  out  with  me  several  times,  that  I  could  manage,  a  pair  of 
sculls  as  well  as  anybody. 

I  was  right  in  my  surmises.  He  commanded  me,  in  the  most 
emphatic  terms,  never  to  go  out  in  the  Dolphin  without  leaving 
the  mast  in  the  boat-house.  This  curtailed  my  anticipated  sport, 
but  the  pleasure  of  having  a  pull  whenever  I  wanted  it  remained. 
I  never  disobeyed  the  Captain's  orders  touching  the  sail,  though  I 
sometimes  extended  my  row  beyond  the  points  he  had  indicated. 

The  river  was  dangerous  for  sail-boats.  Squalls,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  were  of  frequent  occurrence  ;  scarcely  a  year 
passed  that  six  or  seven  persons  were  not  drowned  under  the  very 
windows  of  the  town,  and  these,  oddly  enough,  were  generally  sea- 


66  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

captains,  who  either  did  not  understand  the  river,  or  lacked  the 
skill  to  handle  a  small  craft. 

A  knowledge  of  such  disasters,  one  of  which  I  witnessed,  con- 
soled me  somewhat  when  I  saw  Phil  Adams  skimming  over  the 
water  in  a  spanking  breeze  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  set.  There 
were  few  better  yachtsmen  than  Phil  Adams.  He  usually  went 
sailing  alone,  for  both  Fred  Langdon  and  Binny  Wallace  wen 
under  the  same  restrictions  I  was. 

Not  long  after  the  purchase  of  the  boat,  we  planned  an  excur- 
sion to  Sandpeep  Island,  the  last  of  the  islands  in  the  harbor.  We 
proposed  to  start  early  in  the  morning,  and  return  with  the  tide  in 
the  moonlight.  Our  only  difficulty  was  to  obtain  a  whole  day's 
exemption  from  school,  the  customary  half-holiday  not  being  long 
enough  for  our  picnic.  Somehow,  we  could  n't  work  it  ;  but 
fortune  arranged  it  for  us.  I  may  say  here,  that,  whatever  else  I 
did,  I  never  played  truant  in  my  life. 

One  afternoon  the  four  owners  of  the  Dolphin  exchanged  signifi- 
cant glances  when  Mr.  Grimshaw  announced  from  the  desk  that 
there  'would  be  no  school  the  following  day,  he  having  just  received 
intelligence  of  the  death  of  his  uncle  in  Boston.  I  was  sincerely 
attached  to  Mr.  Grimshaw,  but  I  am  afraid  that  the  death  of  his 
uncle  did  not  affect  me  as  it  ought  to  have  done. 

We  were  up  before  sunrise  the  next  morning,  in  order  to  take 
advantage  of  the  flood  tide,  which  waits  for  no  man.  Our  prepara- 
tions for  the  cruise  were  made  the  previous  evening.  In  the  way 
of  eatables  and  drinkables,  we  had  stored  in  the  stern  of  the  Dol- 
phin a  generous  bag  of  hardtack  (for  the  chowder),  a  piece  of  pork 
to  fry  the  cunners  in,  three  gigantic  apple-pies  (bought  at  Pettin- 
gil's),  half  a  dozen  lemons,  and  a  keg  of  spring- water,  —  the  last- 
named  article  we  slung  over  the  side,  to  keep  it  cool,  as  soon  as  we 
got  under  way.  The  crockery  and  the  bricks  for  our  camp-stove 
we  placed  in  the  bows  with  the  groceries,  which  included  sugar, 
pepper,  salt,  and  a  bottle  of  pickles.  Phil  Adams  contributed  to 
the  outfit  a  small  tent  of  unbleached  cotton  cloth,  under  which  we 
intended  to  take  our  nooning. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


67 


We  unshipped  the  mast,  threw  in  an  extra  oar,  and  were  ready 
to  embark.  I  do  not  believe  that  Christopher  Columbus,  when  he 
started  on  his  rather  successful  voyage  of  discovery,  felt  half  the 
responsibility  and  importance  that  weighed  upon  me  as  I  sat  on 
the  middle  seat  of  the  Dolphin,  with  my  oar  resting  in  the  row- 
lock. I  wonder  if  Christopher  Columbus  quietly  slipped  out 
of  the  house  with- 


out letting  his  esti- 
what  he  was  up  to  1 
lovely  the  river 
pie  stirred  on  the 
ken  only  by  the 
our  tiny  craft.  The 
red  as  an  August 
time  peering  above 

drifted  behind  us, 
tering  among  the 
Sometimes  we 

with  our  boat-hook 
on  either  side.  As 
mouth  of  the  har- 
now  and  then 
water,  shook  the 
foliage,  and  gently 
mist-wreaths  that 
shore.  The  meas- 
ured dip  of  our  oars  and  the  drowsy  twitterings  of  the  birds 
seemed  to  mingle  with,  rather  than  break,  the  enchanted  silence 
that  reigned  about  us. 

The  scent  of  the  new  clover  comes  back  to  me  now,  as  I  recall 
that  delicious  morning  when  we  floated  away  in  a  fairy  boat  down 
a  river  like  a  dream  ! 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  the  nose  of  the  Dolphin  nestled 
against  the  snow-white  bosom  of  Sandpeep  Island.  This  island, 
as  I  have  said  before,1  was  the  last  of  the  cluster,  one  side  of  it 


mable  family  know 
How  calm  and 
was  !  Not  a  rip- 
glassy  surface,  bro- 
sharp  cutwater  of 
sun,  as  round  and 
moon,  was  by  this 
the  water-line. 

The  town  had 
and  we  were  en- 
group  of  islands, 
could  almost  touch 
the  shelving  banks 
we  neared  the 
bor,  a  little  breeze 
wrinkled  the  blue 
spangles  from  the 
lifted  the  spiral 
stUl    clung    along- 


68  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

being  washed  by  the  sea.  "We  landed  on  the  river  side,  the  sloping 
sands  and  quiet  water  affording  us  a  good  place  to  moor  the  boat. 

It  took  ns  an  hour  or  two  to  transport  our  stores  to  the  spot 
selected  for  the  encampment.  Having  pitched  our  tent,  using  the 
five  oars  to  support  the  canvas,  we  got  out  our  lines,  and  went 
down  the  rocks  seaward  to  fish.  It  was  early  lor  dinners,  but  we 
were  lucky  enough  to  catch  as  nice  a  mess  as  eyer  you  saw.  A 
cud  for  the  chowder  was  not  so  easily  secured.  At  last  Binny 
Wallace  hauled  in  a  plump  little  fellow  crusted  all  over  with  flaky 
silver. 

To  skin  the  fish,  build  our  fireplace,  and  cook  the  dinner,  kept  us 
busy  the  next  two  hours.  The  fresh  air  and  the  exercise  had  given 
us  the  appetites  of  wolves,  and  we  were  about  famished  by  the 
time  the  savory  mixture  was  ready  fur  our  clam-shell  saucers. 

I  shall  not  insult  the  rising  generation  on  the  seaboard  by  telling 
them  how  delectable  is  a  chowder  compounded  and  eaten  in  tliis 
Eobinson  Crusoe  fashion.  As  for  the  boys  who  live  inland,  and 
know  naught  of  such  marine  feasts,  my  heart  is  full  of  pity  for 
them.  "What  wasted  lives  !  Not  to  know  the  delights  of  a  clam- 
bake, not  to  love  chowder,  to  be  ignorant  of  lobscouse ! 

How  happy  we  were,  we  four,  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  crisp 
salt  grass,  with  the  invigorating  sea-breeze  blowing  gratefully 
through  our  hair  !  "What  a  joyous  thing  was  life,  and  how  far  off 
seemed  death,  —  death,  that  lurks  in  all  pleasant  places,  and  was 
so  near  .' 

The  banquet  finished,  Phil  Adams  drew  forth  irom  his  pocket  a 
handful  of  sweetfern  cigars  ;  but  as  none  of  the  party  could  in- 
dulge without  risk  of  becoming  sick,  we  all,  on  one  pretext  or 
another,  declined,  and  Phil  smoked  by  himself. 

The  wind  had  freshened  by  this,  and  we  found  it  comfortable  to 
put  on  the  jackets  which  had  been  thrown  aside  in  the  heat  ot  the 
day.  We  strolled  along  the  beach  and  gathered  large  quantities 
of  the  fairy-woven  Iceland  moss,  which,  at  certain  seasons,  is 
washed  to  these  shores  ;  then  we  played  at  ducks  and  drakes,  and 
then,  the  sun  being  sufficiently  low,  we  went  in  bathing. 


STORIES    OF  CHILD   LIFE.  69 

Before  our  bath  was  ended  a  slight  change  had  come  over  the 
sky  and  sea ;  fleecy-white  clouds  scudded  here  and  there,  and  a 
muffled  moan  from  the  breakers  caught  our  ears  from  time  to  time. 
While  we  were  dressing,  a  few  hurried  drops  of  rain  came  lisjring 
down,  and  we  adjourned  to  the  tent  to  await  the  passing  of  the 
squall. 

"  We  're  all  right,  anyhow,"  said  Phil  Adams.  "  It  won't  be 
much  of  a  blow,  and  we  '11  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug,  here  in 
the  tent,  particularly  if  we  have  that  lemonade  which  some  of  you 
fellows  were  going  to  make." 

By  an  oversight,  the  lemons  had  been  left  in  the  boat.  Binny 
Wallace  volunteered  to  go  for  them. 

"  Put  an  extra  stone  on  the  painter,  Binny,"  said  Adams,  call- 
ing after  him ;  "  it  would  be  awkward  to  have  the  Dolphin  give 
us  the  slip  and  return  to  port  minus  her  passengers." 

"  That  it  would,"  answered  Binny,  scrambling  down  the  rocks. 

Sandpeep  Island  is  diamond-shaped,  —  one  point  running  out 
into  the  sea,  and  the  other  looking  towards  the  town.  Our  tent 
was  on  the  river  side.  Though  the  Dolphin  was  also  on  the  same 
side,  it  lay  out  of  sight  by  the  beach  at  the  farther  extremity  of 
the  island. 

Binny  Wallace  had  been  absent  five  or  six  minutes,  when  we 
heard  him  calling  our  several  names  in  tones  that  indicated  dis- 
tress or  surprise,  we  could  not  tell  which.  Our  first  thought  was, 
"  The  boat  has  broken  adrift !  " 

We  sprung  to  our  feet  and  hastened  down  to  the  beach.  On 
turning  the  bluff  which  hid  the  mooring-place  from  our  view,  we 
found  the  conjecture  correct.  Not  only  was  the  Dolphin  afloat, 
but  poor  little  Binny  Wallace  was  standing  in  the  bows  with  his 
arms  stretched  helplessly  towards  us,  —  drifting  out  to  sea  ! 

"  Head  the  boat  in  shore  !  "  shouted  Phil  Adams. 

Wallace  ran  to  the  tiller  ;  but  the  slight  cockle-shell  merely 
swung  round  and  drifted  broadside  on.  0,  if  we  had  but  left  a 
single  scull  in  the  Dolphin  ! 

"  Can  you  swim  it  1 "  cried  Adams,  desperately,  using  his  hand 


70 


CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 


as  a  speaking-trumpet,  for  the  distance  between  the  boat  and  the 
island  widened  momently. 

Binny  Wallace  looked  down  at  the  sea,  which  was  covered  with 
white  caps,  and  made  a  despairing  gesture.  He  knew  and  we 
knew,  that  the  stoutest  swimmer  could  not  live  forty  seconds  in 
those  angry  waters. 

A  wild,  insane  light  came  into  Phil  Adams's  eyes,  as  he  st 1 

knee-deep  in  boiling  surf,  and  for  an  instant  I  think  he  meditated 
plunging  into  the  ocean  after  the  receding  boat. 

The  sky  darkened,  and  an  ugly  look  stole  rapidly  over  the  broken 
surface  of  the  sea. 


Binny  Wallace  half  rose  from  bis  seat  in  the  stern,  and  waved 
bis  hand  to  us  in  token  of  farewell.  In  spite  of  the  distance,  in- 
creasing every  instant,  w^e  could  see  his  face  plainly.  The  anxious  ex- 
pression it  wore  at  first  had  passed.     It  was  pale  and  meek  now,  and 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  71 

I  love  to  think  there  was  a  kind  of  halo  about  it,  like  that  which 
painters  place  around  the  forehead  of  a  saint.     So  he  drifted  away. 

The  sky  grew  darker  and  darker.  It  was  only  by  straining  our 
eyes  through  the  unnatural  twilight  that  we  could  keep  the  Dol- 
phin in  sight.  The  hgure  of  Binny  Wallace  was  no  longer  visible, 
for  the  boat  itself  had  dwindled  to  a  mere  white  dot  on  the  black 
water.  Now  we  lost  it,  and  our  hearts  stopped  throbbing  ;  and 
now  the  speck  appeared  again,  for  an  instant,  on  the  crest  of  a 
high  wave. 

Finally  it  went  out  like  a  spark,  and  we  saw  it  no  more.  Then 
we  gazed  at  each  other,  and  dared  not  speak. 

Absorbed  in  following  the  course  of  the  boat,  we  had  scarcely 
noticed  the  huddled  inky  clouds  that  sagged  down  all  around  us. 
From  these  threatening  masses,  seamed  at  intervals  with  pale  light- 
ning, there  now  burst  a  heavy  peal  of  thunder  that  shook  the 
ground  under  our  feet.  A  sudden  squall  struck  the  sea,  ploughing 
deep  white  furrows  into  it,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  single  pier- 
cing shriek  rose  above  the  tempest,  —  the  frightened  cry  of  a  gull 
swooping  over  the  island.     How  it  startled  us  ! 

It  was  impossible,  to  keep  our  footing  on  the  beach  any  longer. 
The  wind  and  the  breakers  would  have  swept  us  into  the  ocean  if 
we  had  not  elung  to  each  other  with  the  desperation  of  drowning 
men.  Taking  advantage  of  a  momentary  lull,  we  crawled  up  the 
sands  on  our  hands  and  knees,  and,  pausing  in  the  lee  of  the 
granite  ledge  to  gain  breath,  returned  to  the  camp,  where  we  found 
that  the  gale  had  snapped  all  the  fastenings  of  the  tent  but  one. 
Held  by  this,  the  puffed-out  canvas  swayed  in  the  wind  like  a  bal- 
loon. It  was  a  task  of  some  difficulty  to  secure  it,  which  we  did 
by  beating  down  the  canvas  with  the  oars. 

After  several  trials,  we  succeeded  in  setting  up  the  tent  on  the 
leeward  side  of  the  ledge.  Blinded  by  the  vivid  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and  drenched  by  the  rain,  which  fell  in  torrents,  we  crept, 
half  dead  with  fear  and  anguish,  under  our  flimsy  shelter.  Neither 
the  anguish  nor  the  fear  was  on  our  own  account,  for  we  were 
comparatively  safe,  but  for  poor  little  Binny  Wallace,  driven  out  to 


72  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

sea  in  the  merciless  Rale.  We  shuddered  to  think  of  him  in  that 
frail  shell,  drifting  on  and  on  to  his  grave,  the  sky  rent  with 
lightning  over  his  head,  and  the  green  abysses  yawning  beneath 
him.  We  fell  to  crying,  the  three  of  us,  and  cried  I  know  not 
how  long. 

Meanwhile  the  storm  raged  with  augmented  fury.  We  were 
obliged  to  hold  on  to  the  ropes  of  the  tent  to  prevent  it  blowing 
away.  The  spray  from  the  river  leaped  several  yards  up  the  rocks 
and  clutched  at  us  malignantly.  The  very  island  trembled  with 
the  concussions  of  the  sea  beating  upon  it,  and  at  times  I  fancied 
that  it  had  broken  loose  from  its  foundation,  and  was  Moating  off 
with  us..  The  breakers,  streaked  with  angry  phosphorus,  were 
fearful  to  look  at. 

The  wind  rose  higher  and  higher,  cutting  long  slits  in  the  tent, 
through  which  the  rain  poured  incessantly.  To  complete  the  sum 
of  our  miseries,  the  night  was  at  hand.  It  came  down  suddenly,  at 
last,  like  a  curtain,  shutting  in  Sandpeep  Island  from  all  the  world. 

It  was  a  dirty  night,  as  the  sailors  say.  The  darkness  was 
something  that  could  be  felt  as  well  as  seen,  —  it  pressed  down 
upon  one  with  a  cold,  clammy  touch.  Gazing  into  the  hollow 
blackness,  all  sorts  of  imaginable  shapes  seemed  to  start  forth  from 
vacancy,  —  brilliant  colors,  stars,  prisms,  and  dancing  lights. 
What  boy,  lying  awake  at  night,  has  not  amused  or  terrified  him- 
self by  peopling  the  spaces  round  his  bed  with  these  phenomena 
of  his  own  eyes  ? 

"  I  say,"  whispered  Fred  Langdon,  at  length,  clutching  my 
hand,  "  don't  you  see  things  —  out  there  —  in  the  dark  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  —  Binny  Wallace's  face  !  " 

I  added  to  my  own  nervousness  by  making  this  avowal ;  though 
for  the  last  ten  minutes  I  had  seen  little  besides  that  star-pale  face 
with  its  angelic  hair  and  brows.  First  a  slim  yellow  circle,  like 
the  nimbus  round  the  moon,  took  shape  and  grew  sharp  against  the 
darkness  ;  then  this  faded  gradually,  and  there  was  the  Face,  wear- 
ing the  same  sad,  sweet  look  it  wore  when  he  waved  his  hand  to  us 
across  the  awful  water.      This  optical  illusion  kept  repeating  itself. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  73 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Adams.  "  I  see  it  every  now  and  then,  out- 
side there.  What  would  n't  I  give  if  it  really  was  poor  little 
Wallace  looking  in  at  us  !  0  boys,  how  shall  we  dare  to  go  back 
to  the  town  without  him  1  I  've  wished  a  hundred  times,  since 
we  've  been  sitting  here,  that  I  was  in  his  place,  alive  or  dead  !  " 

We  dreaded  the  approach  of  morning  as  much  as  we  longed  for 
it.  The  morning  woidd  tell  us  all.  Was  it  possible  for  the  Dol- 
phin to  outride  such  a  storm  1  There  was  a  lighthouse  on  Mack- 
erel Eeef,  which  lay  directly  in  the  course  the  boat  had  taken, 
when  it  disappeared.  If  the  Dolphin  had  caught  on  this  reef, 
perhaps  Binny  Wallace  was  safe.  Perhaps  his  cries  had  been 
heard  by  the  keeper  of  the  light.  The  man  owned  a  life-boat,  and 
had  rescued  several  people.     Who  coidd  tell  1 

Such  were  the  questions  we  asked  ourselves  again  and  again,  as 
we  lay  in  each  other's  arms  waiting  for  daybreak.  What  an  endless 
night  it  was !     I  have  known  months  that  did  not  seem  so  long. 

Our  position  was  irksome  rather  than  perilous  ;  for  the  day  was 
certain  to  bring  us  relief  from  the  town,  where  our  prolonged  ab- 
sence, together  with  the  storm,  had  no  doubt  excited  the  liveliest 
alarm  for  our  safety.  But  the  cold,  the  darkness,  and  the  suspense 
were  hard  to  bear. 

Our  soaked  jackets  had  chilled  us  to  the  bone.  To  keep  warm, 
we  lay  huddled  together  so  closely  that  we  could  hear  our  hearts 
beat  above  the  tumult  of  sea  and  sky. 

We  used  to  laugh  at  Fred  Langdon  for  always  carrying  in  his 
pocket  a  small  vial  of  essence  of  peppermint  or  sassafras,  a  few 
drops  of  which,  sprinkled  on  a  lump  of  loaf-sugar,  he  seemed  to 
consider  a  great  luxury.  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become 
of  us  at  this  crisis,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  omnipresent  bottle 
of  hot  stuff.  We  poured  the  stinging  liquid  over  our  sugar, 
which  had  kept  dry  in  a  sardine-box,  and  warmed  ourselves  with 
frequent  doses. 

After  four  or  five  hours  the  rain  ceased,  the  wand  died  away  to 
a  moan,  and  the  sea  —  no  longer  raging  like  a  maniac  —  sobbed 
and  sobbed  with  a  piteous  human  voice  all  along  the  coast.  And 
4 


74  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

well  it  might,  after  that  night's  work.  Twelve  sail  of  the  Glouces- 
ter fishing  fleet  had  gone  down  with  every  soul  on  board,  just  out- 
side of  Whale's-back  Light.  Think  of  the  wide  grief  that  follows 
in  the  wake  of  one  wreck  ;  then  think  of  the  despairing  women 
who  wrung  their  hands  and  wept,  the  next  morning,  in  the  streets 
of  Gloucester,  Marblehead,  and  Newcastle  ! 

Though  our  strength  was  nearly  spent,  we  were  too  cold  to 
sleep.  Fred  Langdon  was  the  earliest  to  discover  a  filmy,  lumi- 
nous streak  in  the  sky,  the  first  glimmering  of  sunrise. 

"  Look,  it  is  nearly  daybreak  !  " 

While  we  were  following  the  direction  of  his  finger,  a  sound 
of  distant  oars  fell  on  our  ears. 

We  listened  breathlessly,  and  as  the  dip  of  the  blades  became 
more  audible,  we  discerned  two  foggy  lights,  like  will-o'-the-wisps, 
floating  on  the  river. 

Running  down  to  the  water's  edge,  we  hailed  the  boats  with  all 
our  might.  The  call  was  heard,  for  the  oars  rested  a  moment  in 
the  row-locks,  and  then  pulled  in  towards  the  island. 

It  was  two  boats  from  the  town,  in  the  foremost  of  whieh  we 
could  now  make  out  the  figures  of  Captain  Nutter  and  Binny 
Wallace's  father.     We  shrunk  back  on  seeing  him. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cried  Mr.  Wallace,  fervently,  as  he  leaped  from 
the  wherry  without  waiting  for  the  bow  to  touch  the  beach. 

But  when  he  saw  only  three  boys  standing  on  the  sands,  his  eye 
wandered  restlessly  about  in  cpiest  of  the  fourth  ;  then  a  deadly 
pallor  overspread  his  features. 

Our  story  was  soon  told.  A  solemn  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd 
of  rough  boatmen  gathered  round,  interrupted  only  by  a  stifled 
sob  from  one  poor  old  man,  who  stood  apart  from  the  rest. 

The  sea  was  still  running  too  high  for  any  small  boat  to  venture 
out ;  so  it  was  arranged  that  the  wherry  should  take  us  back  to 
town,  leaving  the  yawl,  with  a  picked  crew,  to  hug  the  island  until 
daybreak,  and  then  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Dolphin. 

Though  it  was  barely  sunrise  when  we  reached  town,  there  were 
a  great  many  people  assembled  at  the  landing,  eager  for  intelli- 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  75 

gence  from  missing  boats.  Two  picnic  parties  had  started  down 
river  the  day  before,  just  previous  to  the  gale,  and  nothing  had 
been  heard  of  them.  It  turned  out  that  the  pleasure-seekers  saw 
their  danger  in  time,  and  ran  ashore  on  one  of  the  least  exposed 
islands,  where  they  passed  the  night.  Shortly  after  our  own 
arrival  they  appeared  off  Rivermouth,  much  to  the  joy  of  their 
friends,  in  two  shattered,  dismasted  boats. 

The  excitement  over,  I  was  in  a  forlorn  state,  physically  and 
mentally.  Captain  Nutter  put  me  to  bed  between  hot  blankets, 
and  sent  Kitty  Collins  for  the  doctor.  I  was  wandering  in  my 
mind,  and  fancied  myself  still  on  Sandpeep  Island  :  now  I  gave 
orders  to  Wallace  how  to  manage  the  boat,  and  now  I  cried  be- 
cause the  rain  was  pouring  in  on  me  through  the  holes  in  the  tent. 
Towards  evening  a  high  fever  set  in,  and  it  was  many  days  before 
my  grandfather  deemed  it  prudent  to  tell  me  that  the  Dolphin  had 
been  found,  floating  keel  upwards,  four  miles  southeast  of  Mack- 
erel Reef. 

Poor  little  Binny  Wallace  !  How  strange  it  seemed,  when  I 
■went  to  school  again,  to  see  that  empty  seat  in  the  fifth  row  ! 
How  gloomy  the  play-ground  was,  lacking  the  sunshine  of  his 
gentle,  sensitive  face !  One  day  a  folded  sheet  slipped  from  my 
algebra  ;  it  was  the  last  note  he  ever  wrote  me.  I  could  n't  read 
it  for  the  tears. 

What  a  pang  shot  across  my  heart  the  afternoon  it  was  whis- 
pered through  the  town  that  a  body  had  been  washed  ashore  at 
Grave  Point,  —  the  place  where  we  bathed.  We  bathed  there  no 
more  !  How  well  I  remember  the  funeral,  and  what  a  piteous 
sight  it  was  afterwards  to  see  his  familial  name  on  a  small  head- 
stone in  the  Old  South  Burying-Oround  ! 

Poor  little  Binny  Wallace  !  Always  the  same  to  me.  The  rest 
of  us  have  grown  up  into  hard,  worldly  men,  fighting  the  fight  of 
life  ;  but  you  are  forever  young,  and  gentle,  and  pure  ;  a  part  of 
my  own  childhood  that  time  cannot  wither ;  always  a  little  boy, 
always  poor  little  Binny  Wallace  ! 

T.  B.  Aldrich. 


CHILD  LIFE  IS   PROSE. 


A  YOUNG  MAHOMETAN. 

THE  bedrooms  in  the  old  house  had  tapestry  hangings,  which 
were  full  of  Bible  history.  The  subject  of  the  one  which 
chiefly  attracted  my  attention  was  Hagar  and  her  son  Ishmael.  I 
every  day  admired  the  beauty  of  the  youth,  and  pitied  the  forlorn 
state  of  his  mother  and  himself  in  the  wilderness. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  into  which  these  tapestry  rooms  opened 
was  one  door,  which,  having  often  in  vain  attempted  to  open,  I  con- 
cluded to  be  locked.  Every  day  I  endeavored  to  turn  the  lock. 
"Whether  by  constantly  trying  I  loosened  it,  or  whether  the  door 
was  not  locked,  but  only  fastened  tight  by  time,  I  know  not ;  but, 
to  my  great  joy,  as  I  was  one  day  trying  it  as  usual,  it  gave  way, 
and  I  found  myself  in  this  so  long-desired  room. 

It  proved  to  be  a  very  large  library.  If  you  never  spent  whole 
mornings  alone  in  a  large  library,  you  cannot  conceive  the  pleasure 
of  taking  down  books  in  the  constant  hope  of  finding  an  entertain- 
ing one  among  them  ;  yet,  after  many  days,  meeting  with  nothing 
but  disappointment,  it  becomes  less  pleasant.  All  the  books  with- 
in my  reach  were  folios  of  the  gravest  cast.  I  could  understand 
very  little  that  I  read  in  them,  and  the  old  dark  print  and  the 
length  of  the  lines  made  my  eyes  ache. 

When  I  had  almost  resolved  to  give  up  the  search  as  fruitless, 
I  perceived  a  volume  lying  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  room.  I 
opened  it.  It  was  a  charming  print  ;  the  letters  were  almost  as 
large  as  the  type  of  the  family  Bible.  Upon  the  first  page  I 
looked  into  I  saw  the  name  of  my  favorite  Ishmael,  whose  face 
I  knew  so  well  from  the  tapestry  in  the  antique  bedrooms,  and 
whose  history  I  had  often  read  in  the  Bible. 

I  sat  myself  down  to  read  this  book  with  the  greatest  eagerness. 
I  shall  be  quite  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  strange  effect  it  had  on 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


77 


me.  I  scarcely  ever  heard  a  word  addressed  to  me  from  morning 
till  night.  If  it  were  not  for  the  old  servants  saying,  "  Good 
morning  to  you,  Miss  Margaret,"  as  they  passed  me  in  the  long 
passages,  I  should  have  been  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  as  per- 
fect a  solitude  as  Eobinson  Crusoe. 

Many  of  the  leaves  in  "  Mahometanism  Explained  "  were  torn 
out,  but  enough  remained  to  make  me  imagine  that  Ishmael  was 
the  true  son  of  Abraham.     I  read  here,  that  the  true  descendants 


of  Abraham  were  known  by  a  light  which  streamed  from  the 
middle  of  their  foreheads,  and  that  Ishmael's  father  and  mother 
first  saw  this  light  streaming  from  his  forehead  as  he  was  lying 
asleep  in  the  cradle. 

I  was  very  sorry  so  many  of  the  leaves  were  gone,  for  it  was  as 
entertaining  as  a  fairy  tale.  I  used  to  read  the  history  of  Ishmael, 
and  then  go  and  look  at  him  in  the  tapestry,  and  then  return  to  his 


78  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

history  again.  When  I  had  almost  learned  the?  history  of  Ishmael 
by  heart,  I  read  the  rest  of  the  book,  and  then  I  came  to  the  his- 
tory of  Mahomet,  who  was  then.'  said  to  be  the  last  descendant  of 
Abraham. 

If  Ishmael  had  engaged  so  much  of  my  thoughts,  how  much 
more  so  must  Mahomet !  His  history  was  full  of  nothing  but 
wonders  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  The  book  said  that  those 
who  believed  all  the  wonderful  stories  which  were  related  of  Ma- 
homet were  called  Mahometans,  and  True  Believers;  I  concluded 
that  I  must  be  a  Mahometan,  for  I  believed  every  word  I  read. 

At  length  I  met  with  something  which  I  also  believed,  though  I 
trembled  as  I  read  it ;  this  was  that,  after  we  are  dead,  we  are  to 
pass  over  a  narrow  bridge,  which  crosses  a  bottomless  gulf.  The 
bridge  was  described  to  be  no  wider  than  a  silken  thread  ;  and  all 
who  were  not  Mahometans  would  slip  on  one  side  of  this  bridge,  and 
drop  into  the  tremendous  gulf  that  had  no  bottom.  I  considered 
myself  as  a  Mahometan,  yet  I  was  perfectly  giddy  whenever  I 
thought  of  passing  over  this  bridge. 

One  day,  seeing  the  old  lady  who  bved  here  totter  across  the 
room,  a  sudden  terror  seized  me,  for  I  thought  how  she  would  ever 
be  able  to  get  over  the  bridge.  Then,  too,  it  was  that  I  first 
recollected  that  my  mother  would  also  be  in  imminent  danger.  I 
imagined  she  had  never  beard  the  name  of  Mahomet,  because,  as 
I  foolishly  conjectured,  this  book  bad  been  locked  up  for  ages  in 
the  library,  and  was  utterly  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

AH  my  desire  was  now  to  tell  them  the  discovery  I  had  made  ; 
for  I  thought,  when  they  knew  of  the  existence  of  "  Mahometanisni 
Explained,"  they  would  read  it,  and  become  Mahometans  to  in- 
sure themselves  a  safe  passage  over  the  silken  bridge.  But  it 
wanted  more  courage  than  I  possessed  to  break  the  matter  to  my 
intended  converts.  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  had  been  reading 
without  leave ;  and  the  habit  of  never  speaking,  or  being  spoken 
to,  considerably  increased  the  difficulty. 

My  anxiety  on  this  subject  threw  me  into  a  fever.  I  was  so  ill 
that  my  mother  thought  it  necessary  to  sleep  in  the  same  room 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  79 

with  me.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I  could  not  resist  the 
strong  desire  I  felt  to  tell  her  what  preyed  so  much  on  my  mind. 
I  awoke  her  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  and  begged  she  would  be  sa 
kind  as  to  be  a  Mahometan.  She  was  very  much  alarmed;  — 
she  thought  I  was  delirious,  and  1  believe  I  was  ;  for  I  tried  to 
explain  the  reason  of  my  request,  but  it  was  in  such  an  incoherent 
manner  that  she  could  not  at  all  comprehend  what  I  was  talking 
about. 

The  next  day  a  physician  was  sent  for,  and  he  discovered,  by 
several  questions  that  he  put  to  me,  that  I  had  read  myself  into  a 
fever.  He  gave  me  medicines,  and  ordered  me  to  be  kept  very 
quiet,  and  said  he  hoped  in  a  few  days  I  should  be  very  well ; 
but  as  it  was  a  new  case  to  him,  he  never  having  attended  a  little 
Mahometan  before,  if  any  lowness  continued  after  he  had  removed 
the  fever,  he  would,  with  my  mother's  permission,  take  me  home 
with  him  to  study  this  extraordinary  case  at  leisure.  He  added, 
that  he  could  then  hold  a  consultation  with  his  wife,  who  was 
often  very  useful  to  him  in  prescribing  remedies  for  the  maladies 
of  his  younger  patients. 

In  a  few  days  he  fetched  me  away.  His  wife  was  in  the  car- 
riage with  him.  Having  heard  what  he  said  about  her  prescrip- 
tions, I  expected,  between  the  doctor  and  his  lady,  to  undergo  a 
severe  course  of  medicine,  especially  as  I  heard  him  very  formally 
ask  her  advice  as  to  what  was  good  for  a  Mahometan  fever,  the 
moment  after  he  had  handed  me  into  his  carriage. 

She  studied  a  little  while,  and  then  she  said,  a  ride  to  Harlow 
Fair  would  not  be  amiss.  He  said  he  was  entirely  of  her  opinion, 
because  it  suited  him  to  go  there  to  buy  a  horse. 

During  the  ride  they  entered  into  conversation  with  me,  and  in 
answer  to  their  questions,  I  was  relating  to  them  the  solitary 
manner  in  which  I  had  passed  my  time,  how  I  found  out  the 
library,  and  what  I  had  read  in  that  fatal  book  which  had  so 
heated  my  imagination, — when  we  arrived  at  the  fair  ;  and  Ishmael, 
Mahomet,  and  the  narrow  bridge  vanished  out  of  my  head  in  an 
instant. 


80  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PSOSE. 

Before  I  went  home  the  good  lady  explained  to  me  very  serious- 
ly the  error  into  which  I  had  fallen.  I  found  that,  so  far  from 
"  Mahometanism  Explained  "  being  a  book  concealed  only  in  this 
library,  it  was  well  known  to  every  person  of  the  least  informa- 
tion. 

The  Turks,  she  told  me,  were  Mahometans.  And  she  said  that,  if 
the  leaves  of  my  favorite  book  had  not  been  torn  out,  I  should  have 
read  that  the  author  of  it  did  not  mean  to  give  the  fabulous 
stories  here  related  as  true,  but  only  wrote  it  as  giving  a  history 
of  what  the  Turks,  who  are  a  very  ignorant  people,  believe  con- 
cerning Mahomet. 

By  the  good  offices  of  the  physician  and  his  lady,  I  was  carried 
home,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  perfectly  cured  of  the  error  into 
which  I  had  fallen,  and  very  much  ashamed  of  having  believed  so 
many  absurdities. 

Mary  Lamb. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  81 


THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN. 

AMONG  the  Persians  there  is  a  sect  called  the  Sooffees,  and 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  saints  of  this  sect  was  Abdool 
Kauder. 

It  is  related  that,  in  early  childhood,  he  was  smitten  with  the  de- 
sire of  devoting  himself  to  sacred  things,  and  wished  to  go  to  Bag- 
dad to  obtain  knowledge.  His  mother  gave  her  consent ;  and  tak- 
ing out  eighty  deenars  (a  denomination  of  money  used  in  Persia),  she 
told  him  that,  as  he  had  a  brother,  half  of  that  would  be  all  his 
inheritance. 

She  made  him  promise,  solemnly,  never  to  tell  a  lie,  and  then 
bade  him  farewell,  exclaiming,  "  Go,  my  son  ;  I  give  thee  to  God. 
We  shall  not  meet  again  till  the  day  of  judgment  !  " 

He  went  on  till  he  came  near  to  Hamadan,  when  the  company 
with  which  he  was  travelling  was  plundered  by  sixty  horsemen. 
One  of  the  robbers  asked  him  what  he  had  got.  "  Forty  deenars," 
said  Abdool  Kauder,  "  are  sewed  under  my  garment."  The  fellow 
laughed,  thinking  that  he  was  joking  him.  "  What  have  you  got  i " 
said  another.     He  gave  the  same  answer. 

When  they  were  dividing  the  spoil,  he  was  called  to  an  emi- 
nence where  their  chief  stood.  "  What  property  have  you,  my 
little  fellow  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  have  told  two  of  your  people  already," 
replied  the  boy.  "  I  have  forty  deenars  sewed  up  carefully  in  my 
clothes."  The  chief  desired  them  to  be  ripped  open,  and  found  the 
money. 

"  And  how  came  you,"  said  he,  with  surprise,  "  to  declare  so 
openly  what  has  been  so  carefully  hidden  1  " 

"  Because,"  Abdool  Kauder  replied,  "  I  will  not  be  false  to  my 
mother,  whom  I  have  promised  that  I  will  never  conceal  the 
truth." 

4*  F 


82 


CHILI )    LIFE   IX   1'JiUSE. 


"  Child  !  "  said  the  robber,  "  hast  thou  such  a  sense  of  duty  to 
thy  mother,  at  thy  years,  and  am  I  insensible,  at  my  age,  of  the 
duty  I  owe  to  my  God  1  Give  me  thy  hand,  innocent  boy,"  he 
continued,  "  that  I  may  swear  repentance  upon  it."  He  did  so ; 
and  his  followers  were  all  alike  struck  with  the  scene. 

"  You  have  been  our  leader  in  guilt,"  said  they  to  their  chief, 
"  be  the  same  in  the  path  of  virtue  !  "  and  they  instantly,  at  his 
order,  made  restitution  of  the  spoil,  and  vowed  repentance  on  the 
hand  of  the  boy. 

Juvenile  Miscellany. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


83 


THE   BOYS'   HEAVEN". 


HAERY  and  Frank  had  a  hearty  cry  when  an  ill-natured 
neighbor  poisoned  their  dog.  They  dug  a  grave  for  their 
favorite,  but  were  unwilling  to  put  him  in  it  and  cover  him  up 
with  earth. 

"  I  wish  there  was  one  of  the  Chinese  petrifying  streams  near 


our  house,"  said  Frank.  "  We  could  lay  Jip  down  in  it ;  and, 
after  a  while,  he  would  become  a  stone  image,  which  we  would 
always  keep  for  a  likeness  of  him." 

Harry,  who  had  been  reading  about  the  ancient  Egyptians,  re- 
marked that  it  was  a  great  pity  the  art  of  embalming  was  lost. 


84  CHILI)   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

But  Frank  declared  that  a  mummy  was  a  hideous  thing,  and 
that  he  would  rather  have  the  dead  dog  out  of  his  sight  forever, 
than  to  make  a  mummy  of  him. 

"  It  seems  very  hard  never  to  see  him  again,"  said  Harry,  with 
a  deep  sigh. 

"  But  perhaps  Jip  has  gone  to  some  dog-heaven  ;  and  when  we 
go  to  the  boys'  heaven,  we  may  happen  to  see  our  old  pet  on  the 
way." 

"  If  he  should  get  sight  of  us  he  would  follow  us,"  said  Frank. 
"  He  always  liked  us  better  than  dogs.  0  yes,  he  would  follow 
us  to  the  boys'  heaven,  of  that  you  may  be  sure  ;  and  I  don't 
think  boys  would  exactly  like  a  heaven  without  any  dogs.  Mother, 
what  kind  of  a  place  is  a  boys'  heaven  ? " 

His  mother,  who  had  just  entered  the  room,  knew  nothing  of 
what  they  had  been  talking  about ;  and,  the  question  being  asked 
suddenly,  she  hardly  knew  what  to  answer. 

She  smiled,  and  said,  "  How  can  I  tell.  Frank  I  You  know  I 
never  was  there." 

"  That  makes  no  difference,"  said  he.  "  Folks  tell  about  a  great 
many  things  the}"  never  saw.  Xobody  ever  goes  to  heaven  till 
they  die ;  but  you  often  read  to  us  about  heaven  and  the  angels. 
Perhaps  some  people,  who  died  and  went  there,  told  others  about 
it  in  their  dreams." 

"  I  cannot  answer  such  questions,  dear  Harry,"  replied  his 
mother.  "  I  only  know  that  God  is  very  wise  and  good,  and  that 
he  wills  we  should  wait  patiently  and  humbly  till  our  souls  grow 
old  enough  to  understand  such  great  mysteries.  Just  as  it  is 
necessary  that  you  should  wait  to  be  much  older  before  you  can 
calculate  when  the  moon  will  be  eclipsed,  or  when  certain  stars 
will  go  away  from  our  portion  of  the  sky,  and  when  they  will 
come  back  again.  Learned  men  know  when  the  earth,  in  its 
travels  through  the  air,  will  cast  its  long  dark  shadow  over  the 
brightness  of  the  moon.  They  can  foretell  exactly  the  hour  and 
the  minute  when  a  star  will  go  down  below  the  line  which  we 
call  the  horizon,  where  the  earth  and  the  sky  seem  to  meet  ;  and 


STORIES    OF  CHILD   LIFE.  85 

they  know  precisely  when  it  will  come  up  again.  But  if  they 
tried  ever  so  hard,  they  could  never  make  little  boys  understand 
about  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  stars.  The  wisest  of  men 
are  very  small  boys,  compared  with  the  angels ;  therefore  the 
angels  know  perfectly  well  many  things  which  they  cannot 
possibly  explain  to  a  man  till  his  soul  grows  and  becomes  an 
angel." 

"  I  understand  that,"  said  Harry.  "  For  I  can  read  any  book  ; 
but  though  Jip  was  a  very  bright  dog,  it  was  no  manner  of  use  to 
try  to  teach  him  the  letters.  He  only  winked  and  gaped  when  I 
told  him  that  was  A.  You  see,  mother,  I  was  the  same  as  an 
angel  to  Jip." 

His  mother  smiled  to  see  how  quickly  he  had  caught  her  mean- 
ing. 

After  some  more  talk  with  them,  she  said,  "  You  have  both 
heard  of  Martin  Luther,  a  great  and  good  man  who  lived  in  Ger- 
many a  long  time  ago.  He  was  very  loving  to  children  ;  and 
once,  when  he  was  away  from  home,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  little 
son.  It  was  dated  1530  ;  so  you  see  it  is  more  than  three  hundred 
years  old.  In  those  days  they  had  not  begun  to  print  any  books 
for  children  ;  therefore,  I  dare  say,  the  boy  was  doubly  delighted 
to  have  something  in  writing  that  his  friends  could  read  to  him. 
You  asked  me,  a  few  minutes  ago,  what  sort  of  a  place  the  boys' 
heaven  is.  In  answer  to  your  question,  I  will  read  what  Martin 
Luther  wrote  to  his  son  Hansigen,  which  in  English  means  Little 
John.  Any  boy  might  be  happy  to  receive  such  a  letter.  Listen 
to  it  now,  and  see  if  you  don't  think  so. 

"  To  my  little  son,  Hansigen  Luther,  grace  and  peace  in  Clirist. 
"  My  heart-dear  little  Son  :  I  hear  that  you  learn  well  and  pray 
diligently.  Continue  to  do  so,  my  son.  When  I  come  home  I  will  bring 
you  a  fine  present  from  the  fair.  I  know  of  a  lovely  garden,  full  of 
joyful  children,  who  wear  little  golden  coats,  and  pick  up  beautiful 
apples,  and  pears,  and  cherries,  and  plums  under  the  trees.  They 
sing,  and  jump,  and  make  merry.  They  have  also  beautiful  little 
horses  with  golden  saddles  and  silver  bridles.     I  asked  the  man  that 


86  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

kc])t  the  garden  who  the  children  were.  And  lie-  said  to  me,  "The 
children  are  those  who  love  to  learn,  and  to  pray,  and  to  lie  good.' 
Then  said  I,  '  Dear  sir,  I  have  a  little  son,  named  Hansigen  Luther. 
May  he  come  into  this  garden,  and  have  the  same  beautiful  apples  ami 
pears  to  eat,  and  wonderful  little  horses  to  ride  upon,  and  may  he  play 
about  with  these  children  V  Then  said  he,  '  If  he  is  willing  to  learn, 
and  to  pray,  and  to  he  good,  he  shall  come  into  this  garden  ;  and  Lip- 
pus  and  Justus  too.  If  they  all  come  together,  they  shall  have  pipes, 
and  little  drums,  and  lutes,  and  music  of  stringed  instruments.  And 
they  shall  dance,  and  shoot  with  little  crossbows.'  Then  he  showed 
ine  a  fine  meadow  in  the  garden,  all  laid  out  for  dancing.  There  hung 
golden  pipes  and  kettle-drums  and  tine  silver  crossbows  ;  but  it  was  too 
early  to  see  the  dancing,  for  the  children  had  not  had  their  dinner.  I 
said,  '  Ah,  dear  sir,  I  will  instantly  go  and  write  to  my  little  son  Han- 
sigen, so  that  he  may  study,  and  pray,  and  be  good,  and  thus  come  into 
this  garden.  And  he  has  a  little  cousin  Lena,  whom  he  must  also  bring 
with  him.'  Then  he  said  to  me,  'So  shall  it  be.  Go  home,  and  write 
to  him.' 

"  Therefore,  dear  little  son  Hansigen,  be  diligent  to  learn  and  to  pray  ; 
and  tell  Lippus  and  Justus  to  do  so  too,  that  you  may  all  meet  together 
in  that  beautiful  garden.  Give  cousin  Lena  a  kiss  from  me.  Herewith  I 
recommend  you  all  to  the  care  of  Almighty  God." 

The  brothers  both  listened  very  attentively  while  that  old  letter 
was  read  ;  and  when  their  mother  had  finished  it,  Frank  ex- 
claimed,  "  That  must  be  a  very  beautiful  place  !  " 

Harry  looked  thoughtfully  in  the  fire,  and  at  last  said,  "  I 
wonder  who  told  all  that  to  Martin  Luther  !  Do  j'ou  suppose  an 
angel  showed  him  that  garden,  when  be  was  asleep  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Frank.  "  But  if  there  were  small 
horses  there  with  golden  saddles  for  the  boys,  why  should  n't  Jip 
be  there,  too,  with  a  golden  collar  and  bells  1 " 

"  Now,  would  n't  that  be  grand  !  "  exclaimed  Harry.  And 
away  they  both  ran  to  plant  flowers  on  Jip's  grave. 

L.  Maria  Child. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


87 


BESSIE'S   GARDEN. 


A  BOVE  all  things,  Bessie  loved  flowers,  but  wild  flowers  most. 
-'A  It  seemed  so  wonderful  to  her  that  these  frail  things  could 
find  their  way  up  out  of  the  dark  ground,  and  unfold  their  lovely 
blossoms,  and  all  their  little  pointed  leaves,  without  any  one  to 
teach  or  help  them. 

Who  watched  over  the  dear  little  wild  flowers,  all  alone  in  the 


88  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

field,  Mid  on  the  hillside,  and  down  by  tho  brook  1  Ah,  Bessie 
knew  that  her  Heavenly  Father  watched  over  them  ;  and  she  loved 
to  think  he  was  smiling  down  upon  her  at  the  same  time  that  his 
strong,  gentle  hand  took  eare  of  the  flowers  and  of  her  at  once. 
And  she  was  not  wrong,  for  Bessie  was  a  kind  of  flower,  you 
know. 

One  day  the  little  girl  thought  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  a 
wild  garden  ;  to  plant  ever  so  many  flowering  things  in  one  place, 
and  let  them  run  together  in  their  pretty  way,  until  the  bright-eyed 
blossoms  should  gaze  out  from  the  whole  tangled  mass  of  beautiful 
green  leaves. 

So  into  the  house  she  ran  to  find  Aunt  Annie,  ami  ask  her 
leave  to  wander  over  on  a  shady  hillside  where  wild  flowers  grew 
thickest. 

Yes,  indeed,  she  might  go,  Aunt  Annie  said  ;  but  what  had  she 
to  carry  her  roots  and  earth  in  while  making  the  garden  % 

0,  Bessie  said,  she  could  take  a  shingle,  or  her  apron. 

Aunt  Annie  laughed,  and  thought  a  basket  would  do  better  ; 
they  must  find  one.  So  they  looked  in  the  closets  and  attics, 
everywhere  ;  but  some  of  the  baskets  were  full,  and  some  were 
broken,  and  some  had  been  gnawed  by  mice  ;  not  one  could  they 
find  that  was  fit  for  Bessie's  purpose. 

Then  dear  Aunt  Annie  poured  out  the  spools  and  bags  from  a 
nice  large  work-basket,  and  told  Bessie  she  might  have  that  for 
her  own,  to  fill  with  earth  or  flowers,  or  anything  she  chose. 

Pleased  enough  with  her  present,  our  young  gardener  went 
dancing  along  through  the  garden,  —  Aunt  Annie  watched  her 
from  the  balcony,  —  dancing  along,  —  and  crept  through  a  gap  in 
the  hedge,  and  out  into  the  field,  that  was  starred  all  over  with 
dandelions,  and  down  the  hollow  by  the  brook,  and  up  on  the  hill- 
side, out  of  sight  among  the  shady  trees. 

And  how  she  worked  that  afternoon,  —  singing  all  the  while  to 
herself  as  she  worked  !  How  she  heaped  together  the  rich,  dark 
mould,  and  evened  it  over  with  her  little  hands  !  How  she  dug 
up  roots  of  violets,  and  grass,  and  spring-beauty,  and  Dutchmen's 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


89 


breeches,  travelling  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  never  tired, 
never  ceasing  her  song. 

The  squirrels  ran  up  out  of  their  holes  to  look  at  Bessie  ;  the 
birds  alighted  over  her  head  and  sang. 

While  Bessie  was  bending  over  her  garden  so  earnestly,  thump  ! 
came  something  all  at  once,  something  so  cold  and  heavy  !  How 
quickly  she  jumped  upon  her  feet,  upsetting  her  basket,  and  mak- 
ing it  roll  down  the  hill,  violet-roots  and  all ! 

And  then  how  she  laughed  when  she  saw  a  big  brown  toad  that 
had  planted  himself  in  the  very  centre  of  her  garden,  and  stood 
there  winking  his  silly  eyes,  and  saying,  "  No  offence,  I  hope  !  " 

The  squirrel  chattered  as  if  he  were  laughing  too ;  the  bird 
sang,  "Never  mind,  Bessie,  never  mind;  pick  up  your  violets, 
and  don't  hurt  the  poor  old  toad  !  " 

"  0  no  ;  it 's  God's  toad ;  I  should  n't  dare  to  hurt  him,"  said 
Bessie. 

Just  at  that  moment  she  heard  a  bell  ringing  loudly  from  her 
father's  house.  She  knew  it  was  calling  her  home ;  but  how 
could  she  leave  her  basket  1  She  must  look  for  that  first ;  the 
hillside  was  steep  and  tangled  with 
bushes,  yet  she  must  make  her  way 
down  and    search   for  ^^..^    _„_  . 

the  lost  treasure.  ^v'-^b' 


"  Waiting,  waiting,  waiting 


denly  sang  the  bird,  from  out 


of  sight  among  the  boughs  ;  "  waiting,  Bessie,"  sang  the  bird. 


ill  I  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  True  enough,"  said  Bessie  ;  "  perhaps  I  'm  making  my  mothei 
or  dear  Aunt  Annie  wait,  —  and  they  are  so  good  !  I  'd  better  let 
the  basket  wait;  take  care  of  it,  birdie!  —  and  none  of  your 
trampling  down  my  flowers,  Mr.  Toad  !  "  And  she  climbed  back 
again  from  bush  to  bush,  and  skipped  along  among  tbe  trunks  of 
the  great  tall  trees,  and  out  by  the  brook  through  the  meadow, 
hedge,  garden,  —  up  the  steps,  calling,  "  Mother,  mother  !  Aunt 
Annie  !  who  wants  me!  " 

"  I,  dear,"  said  her  mother's  voice  ;  "  I  am  going  away  for  a 
long  visit,  and  if  you  had  not  come  at  once,  I  couldn't  have  bid- 
den my  little  girl  good  by."  So  Bessie's  mother  kissed  her,  and 
told  her  to  obey  her  kind  aunt,  and  then  asked  what  she  would 
like  brought  home  for  a  present. 

"  0,  bring  yourself,  dear  mother  ;  come  home  all  well  and 
bright,"  said  Bessie,  "  and  I  won't  ask  any  more."  For  Bessie's 
mother  had  long  been  sick,  and  was  going  now  for  her  health. 

Her  mother  smiled  and  kissed  her.  "Yes,  I  will  bring  that  if 
I  can,  but  there  must  be  something  else  ;  how  would  you  like  a 
set  of  tools  for  this  famous  garden  'I  " 

Bessie's  eyes  shone  with  joy.  "  What !  a  whole  set,  —  rake, 
and  hoe,  and  trowel,  such  as  the  gardener  uses  I " 

"  Exactly,  only  they  '11  be  small  enough  for  your  little  hands  ;  and 
there  '11  be  a  shovel  besides,  and  a  wheelbarrow,  and  a  water-pot." 

So  Bessie  did  not  cry  when  her  mother  went  away,  though  she 
loved  her  as  well  as  any  one  possibly  could.  She  thought  of  all 
the  bright  things,  of  the  pleasant  journey  and  the  better  health  ; 
and  then,  •  —  then  of  her  pretty  set  of  tools,  and  the  handsome 
garden  they  would  make  ! 

It  was  too  late  to  go  back  to  the  hill  that  evening  ;  and  on  the 
morrow  Bessie  awoke  to  find  it  raining  fast.  She  went  into  her 
Aunt  Annie's  room  with  such  a  mournful  face.  "  0  aunty,  this 
old  rain  !  " 

"  This  new,  fresh,  beautiful  rain,  Bessie  ;  what  are  you  thinking 
about  1  How  it  will  make  our  flowers  grow  !  and  what  a  good 
time  we  can  have  together  in  the  house  ! " 


S  TOMES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  91 

"  I  know  it,  Aunt  Annie,  but  you  '11  think  me  so  careless  !  " 

"  To  let  it  rain  !  " 

"  No,  —  don't  laugh,  aunty,  —  to  leave  your  nice  basket  out-of- 
doors  all  night,  and  now  to  be  soaked  and  spoiled  in  this  —  this  — 
beautiful  rain."  Bessie's  countenance  did  not  look  as  though  the 
beautiful  rain  made  her  very  happy. 

And  good  Aunt  Annie,  seeing  how  much  she  was  troubled,  only 
said,  "  You  must  be  more  careful,  dear,  another  time  ;  come  and 
tell  me  all  about  it.  Perhaps  my  Bessie  has  some  good  excuse ;  I 
can  see  it  now  in  her  eyes." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have,"  said  Bessie,  wiping  away  her  tears. 
And  the  little  girl  crept  close  to  her  aunty's  side,  and  told  her 
of  her  beautiful  time  the  day  before,  and  of  the  bird,  and 
squirrel,  and  toad ;  and  how  the  basket  rolled  away  down  hill 
in  the  steepest  place,  and  then  how  the  bell  rang,  and  she  could  n't 
wait  to  find  it. 

"And  you  did  exactly  right,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Annie.  "  If  you 
had  lingered,  your  mother  would  have  had  to  wait  a  whole  day,  or 
else  go  without  seeing  you.  When  I  write,  I  shall  tell  her  how 
obedient  you  were,  and  I  know  it  will  please  her  more  than  any- 
thing else  I  shall  have  to  say." 

Dear  Aunt  Annie,  she  had  always  a  word  of  excuse  and  of 
comfort  for  every  one !  Bessie  was  too  small  to  think  much  about 
it  then.  She  only  pressed  her  little  cheek  lovingly  against  her 
aunty's  hand,  and  resolved  that,  when  she  grew  up  to  a  young 
lady,  she  would  be  just  as  kind  and  ready  to  forget  herself  as 
Aunt  Annie  was. 

Ah,  it  was  not  Bessie's  lot  to  grow  up  to  a  woman  in  this  world  ! 
Before  the  ground  was  dry  enough  for  her  to  venture  out  in  search 
of  her  basket,  she  was  seized  with  a  fever,  and  in  a  few  days  shut 
up  her  sweet  eyes,  as  the  flowers  shut  their  leaves  together,  and 
never  opened  them  again. 

Then  the  summer  passed,  and  the  grass  grew  green  and  faded, 
and  snow-flakes  began  to  fall  on  a  little  grave  ;  and  Aunt  Annie 
quietly  laid  aside  the  set  of  garden  tools  that  had  come  too  late 


92  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

for  Bessie's  use,  and  only  made  her  mother  feel  sad  and  lonely 
when  she  looked  upon  them  now.  And  all  this  time,  what  had 
become  of  the  basket  1 

As  it  fell  from  Bessie's  hands  that  bright  spring  afternoon,  it 
had  lodged  in  a  grassy  hollow,  that  was  all  wound  about,  like  a 
nest,  with  roots  of  the  tall  birch  and  maple  trees ;  close  among  the 
roots  grew  patches  of  the  lovely  scented  May-flower ;  and  all  the 
rest  was  long  fine  grass,  with  a  tiny  leaf  or  a  violet  growing  here 
and  there. 

The  roots  in  the  basket  dried  away,  and  died  for  want  of 
water  ;  but  the  earth  that  Bessie  had  dug  with  them  was  full  of 
little  seeds,  which  had  been  hiding  in  the  dark  for  years,  awaiting 
their  chance  to  grow. 

Broader  and  darker  grew  the  leaves  on  the  shady  boughs  above, 
higher  and  higher  grew  the  grass,  and  all  but  hid  Bessie's  basket. 
"  Coming,  coming,  coming  !  "  the  bird  sang  in  the  boughs  ;  but 
Bessie  never  came. 

So  the  summer  passed  ;  and  when  autumn  shook  the  broad 
leaves  from  the  trees,  and  some  went  whirling  down  the  hill,  and 
some  sailed  away  in  the  brook,  some  lodged  in  Bessie's  basket ;  a 
few  to-day,  and  a  few  the  next  day,  till  the  snow  came,  and  it  was 
almost  full  to  the  brim. 

Sometimes  there  would  come  a  hoar-frost,  and  then  it  was  full 
of  sparkling  flowers  so  airy  that  the  first  sunbeam  melted  them, 
but  none  the  less  lovely  for  that  ;  and  they  melted,  and  went  down 
among  the  leaves,  and  seed,  and  sand,  and  violet-roots. 

In  spring  the  May-flowers  perfumed  the  hollow  with  their  sweet, 
fresh  breath  ;  but  no  one  gathered  them.  The  leaves  and  the 
grass  nestled  close  to  Bessie's  basket,  as  if  they  remembered  her ; 
and  drops  of  rain  dripped  into  it  from  the  budding  boughs,  and 
sparkled  as  they  dropped,  though  they  were  full  of  tiny  grains  of 
dust  and  seed  ;  and  thus  another  summer  passed,  and  no  one  knew 
what  had  become  of  Bessie's  basket. 

The  bird  sang,  "  Coming,  coming  !  "  but  she  never  came. 

So  the  third  spring  came  round ;  and  Aunt  Annie  was  putting 


STOHIJZX   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  i);3 

her  closet  in  order  one  day,  rolling  up  pieces,  and  clearing  boxes, 
and  smoothing  drawers,  when  she  came  upon  a  little  bundle.  It 
was  the  bags,  and  work,  and  spools  of  thread  —  all  old  and  yellow 
now  —  which  she  had  poured  out  that  morning  in  spring,  in  order 
to  give  the  basket  to  her  little  niece. 

"  Dear  child ! "  said  Aunt  Annie,  "  why  have  I  never  looked 
for  the  lost  basket  1  The  poor  little  garden  must  be  swept  away, 
but  it  would  be  pleasant  to  go  where  her  sweet  footsteps  trod  on 
that  happy  afternoon." 

So  she  went,  all  by  herself,  in  the  same  direction  which  she  had 
watched  Bessie  take  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  little  one  were  skip- 
ping before  her  through  the  garden,  the  gate,  —  the  gap  in  the 
hedge  was  not  large  enough  for  Aunt  Annie,  —  across  the  meadow 
that  shone  again  with  starry  dandelions,  along  by  the  brook,  and 
up  the  hill,  till  she  was  lost  from  sight  among  the  trees. 

How  sweet  and  fresh  it  was  in  the  lonely  wood,  with  the 
birds,  and  the  young  leaves,  and  starry  wild  flowers,  and  patches 
of  pretty  moss  !  Did  Bessie  wait  here  and  rest1?  Did  she  climb 
this  rock  for  columbines  1  Did  she  creep  to  the  edge  of  this  bank, 
and  look  over  1 

So  Aunt  Annie  seated  herself  to  rest  among  the  moss  and  roots 
and  leaves  ;  she  picked  columbines,  climbing  by  help  of  the  slender 
birch-trees  ;  she  went  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  looked  down 
past  all  the  trees,  and  stones,  and  flowers,  to  the  little  brook 
below.     And  what  do  you  think  she  saw  1 

What  do  you  think  made  the  tears  come  in  Aunt  Annie's  eyes 
so  quickly,  though  she  seemed  so  glad  they  must  have  been  tears 
of  joy  % 

After  a  while  Aunt  Annie  turned  to  go  home.  Why  did  she 
put  the  boughs  aside  so  gently,  and  step  so  carefully  over  the  soft 
moss,  as  if  she  feared  making  any  sound.     Can  you  think  1 

She  found  Bessie's  mother  seated  at  work  with  a  sad  face,  and 
her  back  turned  towards  the  window. 

"  0,"  said  Aunt  Annie,  "  how  dark  the  room  is,  with  all  these 
heavj'  curtains  !  and  how  still  and  lonesome  it  seems  here  !     You 


94  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

must  come  this  moment  and  take  a  walk  with  me  out  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  it  will  do  you  good." 

Bessie's  mother  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  earo  for  sunshine  to- 
day ;  I  would  rather  be  lonely." 

Then  Aunt  Annie  knelt  by  her  sister,  and  looked  up  with  those 
sweet  eyes  none  could  ever  refuse.  "  Not  care  for  sun,  because  our 
dear  little  Bessie  has  gone  to  be  an  angel !  0,  you  must  see  the 
field  all  over  buttercups  and  dandelions,  like  a  sky  turned  upside 
down,  —  it  would  have  pleased  her  so  !  and  you  must  see  the  brook 
and  woods  ;  and  then  I  have  such  a  surprise  for  you,  you  '11  never 
be  sorry  for  laying  aside  your  work." 

"  Is  it  anything  about  Bessie  1 "  the  mother  asked,  as  they  went 
down  the  steps,  out  into  the  bright,  beautiful  sunshine. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Everything  makes  you  think  of  her  to-day  ;  I  can 
almost  see  her  little  footsteps  iu  the  grass.  A  bird  somewhere  in 
the  wood  sung  her  very  name,  —  and  so  sweetly,  as  if  he  loved 
her,  — '  Bessie,  Bessie,  Bessie,'  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  her  all 
the  while  !  " 

They  reached  the  wood  soon,  for  Aunt  Annie  seemed  in  haste, 
and  hurried  Bessie's  mother  on  ;  though  she  had  grown  so  happy 
all  at  once,  that  she  wanted  to  wait  and  look  at  everything,  —  the 
little  leaves  in  the  ground,  and  the  grass-blades,  and  clover,  and 
bees  even,  seemed  to  please  her. 

When  you  find  people  sad,  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  so 
good  as  to  take  them  out  in  the  sun  of  a  summer  day.  You  must 
remember  this  ;  it  is  better  than  most  of  the  Latin  prescriptions 
doctors  write. 

When  they  were  fairly  within  the  wood,  at  the  brow  of  the  steep 
bank,  Aunt  Annie  parted  the  branches  with  both  her  hands,  and 
said,  "  You  must  follow  me  down  a  little  way  ;  come." 

0,  as  Aunt  Annie  looked  back,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  brought 
all  the  sunshine  in  her  dear  face  !  "  Don't  think  of  being  afraid," 
she  said  ;  "  why,  Bessie  came  down  here  once  !  I  have  found  her 
basket,  I  've  found  her  beautiful  garden  !  " 

Yes,  that  was  the  secret  !     You  remember  the  spot  into  which 


STORIES    OF  CHILD   LIFE.  95 

Bessie's  basket  fell ;  all  intertwined  like  a  bird's-nest  with  roots 
of  the  great  tall  trees  ;  all  green  and  soft  with  the  fine  grass  that 
grows  in  the  woods.     Here  it  had  lain  ever  since.     Here  it  was. — 

But  you  cannot  think  how  changed  !  The  violet-roots,  the 
leaves,  dust,  rain,  frost,  seed,  —  you  remember  how  they  filled  it, 
and  withered  to  leave  room  for  more,  day  by  day,  week  by  week. 

Now  these  had  mingled  together,  and  made  rich  earth  ;  and  the 
seeds  had  grown,  the  tiny  seeds,  and  were  dear  little  plants  and 
flowers,  that  hung  about  the  edge,  and  crept  through  the  open- 
work sides,  with  their  delicate  green  leaves,  and  tendrils,  and  starry 
blossoms ! 

Violet,  chickweed,  anemone,  spring-beauty,  and  dicentra,  that 
children  call  "  Dutchman's  breeches,"  with  its  pearly,  drooping 
flowers,  —  these  had  tangled  into  one  lovely  mass  of  leaves  and 
blossoms,  just  such  as  would  have  made  our  Bessie  sing  for  joy. 

Yet  you  have  not  heard  the  best ;  Aunt  Annie's  footsteps  on  the 
moss  would  not  have  disturbed  these.  Plight  in  the  midst  of  the 
flowers  in  Bessie's  basket  a  little  gray  ground-sparrow  had  built 
her  nest  of  hair  and  moss,  and  there  she  was  hatching  her  eggs  ! 
As  they  drew  nearer,  the  little  bird  looked  up  at  the  ladies  with 
Ids  bright  brown  eye,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Don't  hurt  me  ;  don't, 
for  Bessie's  sake  !  " 

No,  they  would  not  hurt  Bessie's  bird  for  the  whole  wide  world. 
They  went  quietly  home,  and  left  him  there  watching  for  his  mate, 
wdio  had  flown  up  towards  the  sky  to  stretch  her  wings  a  little. 

Slowly,  hand  in  hand,  the  sisters  passed  once  more  through  the 
wood.  They  could  not  bear  to  leave  so  sweet  a  place.  And  all 
the  while  Bessie's  bird  sang  to  them  his  strange  song,  "  Coming, 
coming,  coming  !  "     They  heard  it  till  the  wood  was  out  of  sight. 

"Yes,  there  are  always  good  things  coming  as  well  as  going," 
Aunt  Annie  said,  softly,  "  if  we  are  patient  and  wait.  The  dear 
child's  basket  has  grown  more  useful  and  lovely  because  she  lost 
it  that  bright  day." 

"  And  our  lost  darling  ■? "  Bessie's  mother  began  to  ask,  and 
looked  in  Aunt  Annie's  eyes. 


9G 


CHILD   LIFE  IX  PltOSE. 


"  Our  Bessie's  flowers  do  not  fade  now ;  there  is  no  cold  wintei 
in  heaven  ;  she  cannot  lose  her  treasures  there.  And  has  n't  she 
grown  more  useful  and  lovely,  living  among  the  angels  all  this 
while?" 

Then,  from  afar  in  the  woods,  they  heard  the  low,  sweet  voice, 
that  thrilled  forth,  "Coming,  coming!"  and  Bessie's  mother 
smiled,  and  said,  "  She  cannot  come  to  us,  but  we  soon  shall  go  to 
her  ;  and  0,  our  darling's  hand  in  ours,  how  gladly  shall  we 
walk  in  the  Eternal  Garden  ! " 

Caroline  ,S.  Whitmarsh. 


m  pa 


>?prJ^T 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  97 


HOW   THE   CRICKETS    BROUGHT   GOOD    FORTUNE. 

MY  friend  Jacques  went  into  a  baker's  shop  one  day  to  buy  a 
little  cake  which  he  had  fancied  in  passing.  He  intended 
it  for  a  child  whose  appetite  was  gone,  and  who  could  be  coaxed 
to  eat  only  by  amusing  him.  He  thought  that  such  a  pretty  loaf 
might  tempt  even  the  sick.  While  he  waited  for  his  change,  a 
little  boy  six  or  eight  years  old,  in  poor,  but  perfectly  clean  clothes, 
entered  the  baker's  shop.  "  Ma'am,"  said  he  to  the  baker's  wife, 
"  mother  sent  me  for  a  loaf  of  bread."  The  woman  climbed  upon 
the  counter  (this  happened  in  a  country  town),  took  from  the 
shelf  of  four-pound  loaves  the  best  one  she  could  find,  and  put  it 
into  the  arms  of  the  little  boy. 

My  friend  Jacques  then  first  observed  the  thin  and  thoughtful 
face  of  the  little  fellow.  It  contrasted  strongly  with  the  round, 
open  countenance  of  the  great  loaf,  of  which  he  was  taking  the 
greatest  care. 

"  Have  you  any  money  1 "  said  the  baker's  wife. 

The  little  boy's  eyes  grew  sad. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  he,  hugging  the  loaf  closer  to  his  thin  blouse  ; 
"  but  mother  told  me  to  say  that  she  would  come  and  speak  to  you 
about  it  to-morrow." 

"  Run  along,"  said  the  good  woman  ;  "  carry  your  bread  home, 
child." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  poor  little  fellow. 

My  friend  Jacques  came  forward  for  his  money.  He  had  put 
his  purchase  into  his  pocket,  and  was  about  to  go,  when  he  found 
the  child  with  the  big  loaf,  whom  he  had  supposed  to  be  half-way 
home,  standing  stock-still  behind  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  1 "  said  the  baker's  wife  to  the  child, 
whom  she  also  had  thought  to  be  fairly  off.  "  Don't  you  like  the 
bread  ? "  5  a 


98  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  0  yes,  ma'am  !  "  said  the  child. 

"  Well,  then,  carry  it  to  your  mother,  my  little  friend.  If  you 
wait  any  longer,  she  will  think  you  are  playing  by  the  way,  and 
you  will  get  a  scolding." 

The  child  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Something  else  absorbed  his 
attention. 

The  baker's  wife  went  up  to  him,  and  gave  him  a  friendly  tap 
on  the  shoulder.     "  What  are  you  thinking  about !  "  said  she. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  little  boy,  "  what  is  it  that  sings  ! " 

"  There  is  no  singing,"  said  she. 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  the  little  fellow.  "  Hear  it !  Queek,  queek, 
queek,  queek  !  " 

My  friend  and  the  woman  both  listened,  but  they  could  hear 
nothing,  unless  it  was  the  song  of  the  crickets,  frequent  guests  in 
bakers'  houses. 

"  It  is  a  little  bird,"  said  the  dear  little  fellow ;  "  or  perhaps  the 
bread  sings  when  it  bakes,  as  apples  do." 

"  No,  indeed,  little  goosey  !  "  said  the  baker's  wife  ;  "  those  are 
crickets.  They  sing  in  the  bakehouse  because  we  are  lighting  the 
oven,  and  they  like  to  see  the  fire." 

"  Crickets  !  "  said  the  child  ;  "  are  they  really  crickets  1  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  she,  good-humoredly.  The  child's  face 
lighted  up. 

"Ma'am,"  said  he,  blushing  at  the  boldness  of  his  request,  "I 
would  like  it  xery  much  if  you  would  give  me  a  cricket." 

"  A  cricket  !  "  said  the  baker's  wife,  smiling  ;  "  what  in  the  world 
would  you  do  with  a  cricket,  my  little  friend  ?  I  would  gladly 
give  you  all  there  are  in  the  house,  to  get  rid  of  them,  they  run 
about  so." 

"  0  ma'am,  give  me  one,  only  one,  if  you  please !  "  said  the 
child,  clasping  his  little  thin  hands  under  the  big  loaf.  "  They 
say  that  crickets  bring  good  luck  into  houses  ;  and  perhaps  if  we 
had  one  at  home,  mother,  who  has  so  much  trouble,  would  n't  cry 
any  more." 

"  Why  does  your  poor  mamma  cry  ? "  said  my  friend,  who  could 
no  longer  help  joining  in  the  conversation. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD    LIFE. 


99 


■'  On  account  of  her  bills,  sir,"  said  the  little  fellow.  "  Father 
s  dead,  and  mother  works  very  hard,  but  she  cannot  pay  them 
all." 

My  friend  took  the  child,  and  with  him  the  great  loaf,  into 
his  arms,  and  I  really 
believe  he  kissed  them 
both.  Meanwhile  the 
baker's  wife,  who  did  not 
dare  to  touch  a  cricket 
herself,  had  gone  into 
the  bakehouse.  She 
made  her  husband  catch 
four,  and  put  them  into 
a  box  with  holes  in  the 
cover,  so  that  they  might 
breathe.  She  gave  the 
box  to  the  child,  who 
went  away  perfectly 
happy. 

When  he  had  gone,  the  baker's  wife  and  my  friend  gave  each 
other  a  good  squeeze  of  the  hand.  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  "  said  they 
both  together.  Then  she  took  down  her  account-book,  and,  find- 
ing the  page  where  the  mother's  charges  were  written,  made  a 
great  dash  all  down  the  page,  and  then  wrote  at  the  bottom, 
"Paid." 

Meanwhile  my  friend,  to  lose  no  time,  had  put  up  in  paper  all 
the  money  in  his  pockets,  where  fortunately  he  had  quite  a  sum 
that  day,  and  had  begged  the  good  wife  to  send  it  at  once  to  the 
mother  of  the  little  cricket-boy,  with  her  bill  receipted,  and  a  note, 
in  which  he  told  her  she  had  a  son  who  would  one  clay  be  her  joy 
and  pride. 

They  gave  it  to  a  baker's  boy  with  long  legs,  and  told  him  to 
make  haste.  The  child,  with  his  big  loaf,  his  four  crickets,  and 
his  little  short  legs,  could  not  run  very  fast,  so  that,  when  he 
reached  home,  he  found  his  mother,  for  the  first   time  in  many 


100 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


weeks  with  her  eyes  raised  from  her  work,  and  a  smile  of  peace 
and  happiness  upon  her  lips. 

The  boy  believed  that  it  was  the  arrival  of  his  four  little  black 
things  which  had  worked  this  miracle,  and  I  do  not  think  he  was 
mistaken.  Without  the  crickets,  and  his  good  little  heart,  would 
this  happy  change  have  taken  place  in  his  mother's  fortunes  1 

From  the  French  of  F.  J.  Stahl. 


STORIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  10  L 


PAUL   AND    VIRGINIA. 

ON  the  eastern  coast  of  the  mountain  which  rises  above  Port 
Louis  in  the  Mauritius,  upon  a  piece  of  land  bearing  the 
marks  of  former  cultivation,  are  seen  the  ruins  of  two  small 
cottages.  Those  ruins  are  situated  near  the  centre  of  a  valley, 
formed  by  immense  rocks,  and  which  opens  only  toward  the  north. 
On  the  left  rises  the  mountain,  called  the  Height  of  Discovery, 
whence  the  eye  marks  the  distant  sail  when  it  first  touches  the 
verge  of  the  horizon,  and  whence  the  signal  is  given  when  a 
vessel  approaches  the  island.  At  the  foot  of  this  mountain  stands 
the  town  of  Port  Louis.  On  the  right  is  formed  the  road,  which 
stretches  from  Port  Louis  to  the  Shaddock  Grove,  where  the 
church  bearing  that  name  lifts  its  head,  surrounded  by  its  ave- 
nues of  bamboo,  in  the  midst  of  a  spacious  plain ;  and  the  pros- 
pect terminates  in  a  forest  extending  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  the 
island.  The  front  view  presents  the  bay,  denominated  the  Bay 
of  the  Tomb  ;  a  little  on  the  right  is  seen  the  Cape  of  Misfortune ; 


102  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

and  beyond  rolls  the  expanded  ocean,  on  the  surface  of  which 
appear  a  few  uninhabited  islands,  and,  among  others,  the  Point 
of  Endeavor,  which  resembles  a  bastion  built  upon  the  Hood. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  valley  which  presents  those  various 
objects,  the  echoes  of  the  mountain  incessantly  repeat  the  hollow 
murmurs  of  the  winds  that  shake  the  neighboring  forests,  and  the 
tumultuous  dashing  of  the  waves  which  break  at  a  distance,  upon 
the  cliffs  ;  but  near  the  ruined  cottages'  all  is  calm  and  still,  and 
the  only  objects  which  there  meet  the  eye  are  rude  steep  rocks, 
that  rise  like  a  surrounding  rampart.  Large  clumps  of  trees  grow 
at  their  base,  on  their  rifted  sides,  and  even  on  their  majestic  tops, 
where  the  clouds  seem  to  repose.  The  showers,  which  their  bold 
points  attract,  often  paint  the  vivid  colors  of  the  rainbow  on  their 
green  and  brown  declivities,  and  swell  the  sources  of  the  little 
river  which  Hows  at  their  feet,  called  the  river  of  Fan-Palms. 

"Within  this  enclosure  reigns  the  most  profound  silence.  The 
waters,  the  air,  all  the  elements,  are  at  peace.  Scarcely  does  the 
echo  repeat  the  whispers  of  the  palm-trees  spreading  their  broad 
leaves,  the  long  points  of  which  are  gently  agitated  by  the  winds. 
A  soft  light  illumines  the  bottom  of  this  deep  valley,  on  which 
the  sun  shines  only  at  noon.  But  even  at  break  of  day  the  rays 
of  light  are  thrown  on  the  surrounding  rocks  ;  and  their  sharp 
peaks,  rising  above  the  shadows  of  the  mountain,  appear  like  tints 
of  gold  and  purple  gleaming  upon  the  azure  sky. 

Here  two  mothers,  widowed  by  death  and  desertion,  nursed 
their  children,  with  the  sight  of  whom  the  mutual  affection  of  the 
parents  acquired  new  strength. 

Madame  de  la  Tour's  child  was  named  Virginia  ;  her  friend 
Margaret's,  Paul.  They  loved  to  put  their  infants  into  the  same 
bath,  and  lay  them  in  the  same  cradle  ;  and  sometimes  each 
nursed  at  her  bosom  the  other's  babe. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Madame  de  la  Tour,  "  we  shall  each  of 
us  have  two  children,  and  each  of  our  children  will  have  two 
mothers." 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  attachment  which  these  infants  early 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  103 

displayed  for  each  other.  If  Paul  complained,  his  mother  pointed 
to  Virginia,  and  at  that  sight  he  smiled  and  was  appeased.  If  any 
accident  befell  Virginia,  the  cries  of  Paal  gave  notice  of  the  dis- 
aster, and  then  the  dear  child  would  suppress  her  complaints  when 
she  found  that  Paul  was  unhappy.  When  I  came  hither,  I  used 
to  see  them  tottering  along,  holding  each  other  by  the  hands  and 
under  the  arms,  as  we  represent  the  constellation  of  the  Twins. 
At  night  these  infants  often  refused  to  be  separated,  and  were 
found  lying  in  the  same  cradle,  their  cheeks,  their  bosoms,  pressed 
close  together,  their  hands  thrown  round  each  other's  neck,  and 
sleeping  locked  in  one  another's  arms. 

When  they  began  to  speak,  the  first  names  they  learned  to  give 
each  other  were  those  of  brother  and  sister,  and  childhood  knows 
no  softer  appellation.  Their  education  served  to  increase  their 
early  friendship,  by  directing  it  to  the  supply  of  each  other's 
wants.  In  a  short  time,  all  that  regarded  the  household  economy, 
the  care  of  preparing  the  rural  repasts,  became  the  task  of  Virginia, 
whose  labors  were  always  crowned  with  the  praises  and  kisses  of 
her  brother.  As  for  Paul,  always  in  motion,  he  dug  the  garden 
with  Domingo,  or  followed  him  with  a  little  hatchet  into  the 
woods ;  and  if  in  his  rambles  he  espied  a  beautiful  flower,  fine 
fruit,  or  a  nest  of  birds,  even  at  the  top  of  a  tree,  he  would  climb 
up,  and  bring  it  home  to  his  sister. 

When  you  met  one  of  these  children,  you  might  be  sure  the 
other  was  not  far  off.  One  day,  as  I  was  coming  down  the  moun- 
tain, I  saw  Virginia  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  running  toward  the 
house,  with  her  petticoat  thrown  over  her  head,  in  order  to  screen 
herself  from  a  shower  of  rain.  At  a  distance,  I  thought  she  was 
alone ;  but  as  I  hastened  toward  her,  in  order  to  help  her  on,  I 
perceived  that  she  held  Paul  by'  the  arm,  almost  entirely  enveloped 
in  the  same  canopy,  and  both  were  laughing  heartily  at  being 
sheltered  together  under  an  umbrella  of  their  own  invention. 
Those  two  charming  faces  placed  within  the  swelling  petticoat 
recalled  to  my  mind  the  children  of  Leda  enclosed  within  the 
same  shell. 


114 


CHILD   LIFE   L\   PROSE. 


Their  sole  study  was  how  to  please  and  assist  each  other ;  for 
of  all  other  things  they  were  ignorant,  and  knew  neither  how  to 
rs,.td  nor  write.  They  were  never  disturbed  by  inquiries  about 
jtfst  times,  nor  did  their  curiosity  extend  beyond  the  bounds  of 


their  mountain.  They  believed  the  world  ended  at  the  shores  of 
their  own  island,  and  all  their  ideas  and  affections  were  confined 
within  its  limits.  Their  mutual  tenderness,  and  that  of  their 
mothers,  employed  all  the  activity  of  their  souls.     Their  tears  had 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  105 

never  been  called  forth  by  tedious  application  to  useless  sciences. 
Their  minds  had  never  been  wearied  by  lessons  of  morality,  super- 
fluous to  bosoms  unconscious  of  ill.  They  had  never  been  taught 
not  to  steal,  because  everything  with  them  was  in  common ;  or 
not  to  be  intemperate,  because  their  simple  food  was  left  to  their 
own  discretion ;  or  not  to  lie,  because  they  had  no  truth  to  con- 
ceal. Their  young  imaginations  had  never  been  terrified  by  the 
idea  that  God  has  punishments  in  store  for  ungrateful  children, 
since  with  them  filial  affection  arose  naturally  from  maternal  fond- 
ness. 

Thus  passed  their  early  childhood,  like  a  beautiful  dawn,  the 
prelude  of  a  bright  day.  Already  they  partook  with  their  mothers 
the  cares  of  the  household.  As  soon  as  the  crow  of  the  cock 
announced  the  first  beam  of  the  morning,  Virginia  arose,  and 
hastened  to  draw  water  from  a  neighboring  spring  ;  then,  returning 
to  the  house,  she  prepared  the  breakfast.  When  the  rising  sun 
lighted  up  the  points  of  the  rocks  which  overhang  this  enclosure, 
Margaret  and  her  child  went  to  the  dwelling  of  Madame  de  la 
Tour,  and  offered  up  together  their  morning  prayer.  This  sacrifice 
of  thanksgiving  always  preceded  their  first  repast,  of  which  they 
often  partook  before  the  door  of  the  cottage,  seated  upon  the  grass, 
under  a  canopy  of  plantain  ;  and  while  the  branches  of  that  de- 
lightful tree  afforded  a  grateful  shade,  its  solid  fruit  furnished  food 
ready  prepared  by  Xature  ;  and  its  long  glossy  leaves,  spread 
upon  the  table,  supplied  the  want  of  linen. 

Perhaps  the  most  charming  spot  of  this  enclosure  was  that 
which  was  called  Virginia's  Resting-place.  At  the  foot  of  the 
rock  which  bore  the  name  of  the  Discovery  of  Friendship  is  a 
nook,  from  whence  issues  a  fountain,  forming,  near  its  source,  a 
little  spot  of  marshy  soil  in  the  midst  of  a  field  of  rich  grass.  At 
the  time  Margaret  brought  Paul  into  the  world,  I  made  her  a 
present  of  an  Indian  cocoa  which  had  been  given  me,  and  which 
she  planted  on  the  border  of  this  fenny  ground,  in  order  that  the 
tree  might  one  day  serve  to  mark  the  epoch  of  her  son's  birth. 
Madame  de  la  Tour  planted  another  cocoa,  with  the  same  view,  at 
5* 


10(]  CBILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

the  birth  of  Virginia.  These  nuts  produced  two  cocoa-trees,  which 
formed  the  only  records  of  the  two  families  :  one  was  called  Paul's 
tree  ;  the  other,  Virginia's  tree.  They  both  grew  in  the  same 
proportion  as  their  two  owners,  a  little  unequally ;  but  they 
rose,  at  the  end  of  twelve  years,  above  the  cottages.  Already 
their  tender  stalks  were  interwoven,  and  their  young  clusters 
of  cocoas  hung  over  the  basin  of  the  fountain.  Except  this 
little  plantation,  the  nook  of  the  rock  had  been  left  as  it  was 
decorated  by  Nature.  On  its  brown  and  moist  sides  large  plants  of 
maidenhair  glistened  with  their  green  and  dark  stars  ;  and  tufts  of 
wave-leaved  hart's-tongue,  suspended  like  long  ribbons  of  purpled 
green,  floated  on  the  winds.  Near  this  grew  a  chain  of  the  Mada- 
gascar periwinkle,  the  flowers  of  which  resemble  the  red  gillyflower  ; 
and  the  long-podded  capsicum,  the  seed-vessels  of  which  are  of  the 
color  of  blood,  and  more  glowing  than  coral.  Hard  by,  the  herb  of 
balm,  with  its  leaves  within  the  heart,  and  the  sweet  basil,  which  has 
the  odor  of  the  gillyflower,  exhaled  the  most  delicious  perfumes. 
From  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  hung  the  graceful  lianas, 
like  floating  drapery,  forming  magnificent  canopies  of  verdure 
upon  the  sides  of  the  rocks.  The  sea-birds,  allured  by  the  still- 
ness of  those  retreats,  resorted  thither  to  pass  the  night.  At  the 
hour  of  sunset  we  could  see  the  curlew  and  the  stint  skimming 
along  the  sea-shore ;  the  black  frigate-bird  poised  high  in  air ; 
and  the  white  bird  of  the  tropic,  which  abandons,  with  the  star 
of  day,  the  solitudes  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  Virginia  loved  to  rest 
upon  the  border  of  this  fountain,  decorated  with  wild  and  sublime 
magnificence.  She  often  seated  herself  beneath  the  shade  of  the 
two  cocoa-trees,  and  there  she  sometimes  led  her  goats  to  graze. 
While  she  was  making  cheeses  of  their  milk,  she  loved  to 
see  them  browse  on  the  maidenhair  which  grew  upon  the 
steep  sides  of  the  rock,  and  hung  suspended  upon  one  of  its 
cornices,  as  on  a  pedestal.  Paul,  observing  that  Virginia  was 
fond  of  this  spot,  brought  thither,  from  the  neighboring  forest, 
a  great  variety  of  bird's-nests.  The  old  birds,  following  their 
young,   established  themselves  in  this  new  colony.     Virginia,  at 


STORIES   OF  CHILI)  LIFE.  107 

certain  times,  distributed  among  them  grains  of  rice,  millet,  and 
maize.  As  soon  as  she  appeared,  the  whistling  blackbird,  the  ama- 
david  bird,  the  note  of  which  is  so  soft,  the  cardinal,  with  its 
plumage  the  color  of  flame,  forsook  their  bushes ;  the  paroquet, 
green  as  an  emerald,  descended  from  the  neighboring  fan- palms ; 
the  partridge  ran  along  the  grass  ;  all  came  running  helter-skelter 
toward  her,  like  a  brood  of  chickens,  and  she  and  Paul  delighted 
to  observe  their  sports,  their  repasts,  and  their  loves: 

Amiable  children  !  thus  passed  your  early  days  in  innocence, 
and  in  the  exercise  of  benevolence.  How  many  times,  on  this 
very  spot,  have  your  mothers,  pressing  you  in  their  arms,  blessed 
Heaven  for  the  consolations  that  you  were  preparing  for  their  de- 
clining years,  and  that  they  could  see  you  begin  life  under  such 
happy  auspices  !  How  many  times,  beneath  the  shade  of  those 
rocks,  have  I  partaken  with  them  of  your  rural  repasts,  which  cost 
no  animal  its  life  !  Gourds  filled  with  milk,  fresh  eggs,  cakes  of 
rice  placed  upon  plantain  leaves,  baskets  loaded  with  mangoes, 
oranges,  dates,  pomegranates,  pine-apples,  furnished  at  once  the 
most  wholesome  food,  the  most  beautiful  colors,  and  the  most 
delicious  juices. 

The  conversation  was  gentle  and  innocent  as  the  repasts.  Paul 
often  talked  of  the  labors  of  the  day  and  those  of  the  morrow.  He 
was  continually  planning  something  useful  for  their  little  society. 
Here  he  discovered  that  the  paths  were  rough  ;  there  that  the  seats 
were  uncomfortable  ;  sometimes  the  young  arbors  did  not  afford 
sufficient  shade,  and  Virginia  might  be  better  pleased  elsewhere. 

In  the  rainy  season  the  two  families  met  together  in  the  cottage, 
and  employed  themselves  in  weaving  mats  of  grass  and  baskets  of 
bamboo.  Eakes,  spades,  and  hatcliets  were  ranged  along  the  walls 
in  the  most  perfect  order  ;  and  near  these  instruments  of  agricul- 
ture were  placed  its  products,  —  sacks  of  rice,  sheaves  of  corn, 
and  baskets  of  plantains.  Some  degree  of  luxury  is  usually 
united  with  plenty,  and  Virginia  was  taught  by  her  mother  and 
Margaret  to  prepare  sherbet  and  cordials  from  the  juice  of  the 
sugar-cane,  the  lemon,  and  the  citron. 


108 


CHILD   LIFE  IX  PRO  HE. 


When  night  came,  they  all  supped  together  by  the  light  of  a 
lamp  ;  after  which  Madame  de  la  Tour  or  Margaret  told  stories  of 
travellers  lost  during  the  night  in  forests  of  Europe  infested  by 
banditti  ;  or  of  some  shipwrecked  vessel,  thrown  by  the  tempest 
upon  the  rocks  of  a  desert  island.  To  these  recitals  their 
children  listened  with  eager  sensibility,  and  earnestly  begged  that 
Heaven  would  grant  they  might  one  day  have  the  joy  of  showing 
their  hospitality  towards  such  unfortunate  persons.  At  length  the 
two  families  would  separate  and  retire  to  rest,  impatient  to  meet 
again  the  next  morning.  Sometimes  they  were  lulled  to  repose 
by  the  beating  rains  which  fell  in  torrents  upon  the  roofs  of  their 
cottages,  and  sometimes  by  the  hollow  winds,  which  brought  to 
their  ear  the  distant  murmur  of  the  waves  breaking  upon  the 
shore.  They  blessed  God  for  their  own  safety,  of  which  their 
feeling  became  stronger  from  the  idea  of  remote  danger. 

Bernard  in  de  Saint  Pierre. 


^^a^/K^: — r—  ■*  tfi'ijyjdS'  «-• 


STOUIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


109 


OEYVIND   AND   MARIT. 


OEYVIND  was  his  name.  A  low  barren  cliff  overhung  the 
house  in  which  he  was  born  ;  fir  and  birch  looked  down 
on  the  roof,  and  wild-cherry  strewed  flowers  over  it.  Upon  this 
roof  there  walked  about  a  little  goat,  which  belonged  to  Oeyvind. 
He  was  kept  there  that  he  might  not  go  astray ;  and  Oeyvind  car- 
ried carried  leaves  and  grass  up  to  him.  One  fine  day  the  goat 
leaped  down,  and  —  away  to  the  cliff;  he  went  straight  up,  and 
came  where  he  never  had  been  before.  Oeyvind  did  not  see  him 
when  he  came  out  after  dinner,  and  thought  immediately  of  the 
fox.  He  grew  hot  all  over,  looked  around  about,  and  called, 
"  Killy-killy-killy-goat ! " 


HO  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  Bay-ay-ay,"  said  the  goat,  from  the  brow  of  the  hill,  as  lie 
cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  down. 

But  at  the  side  of  the  goat  there  kneeled  a  little  girl. 

"  Is  it  yours,  this  goat  1 "  she  askei  L. 

Oeyvind  stood  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open,  thrust  both 
hands  into  the  breeches  he  had  on,  and  asked,   "  Who  are  you  1  " 

"  I  am  Marit,  mother's  little  one,  father's  fiddle,  the  elf  in  the 
house,  grand-daughter  of  Ole  Nordistuen  of  the  Heide  farms,  four 
years  old  in  the  autumn,  two  days  after  the  frost  nights,  I  !  " 

"  Are  you  really  %  "  he  said,  and  drew  a  long  breath,  which  ho 
had  not  dared  to  do  so  long  as  she  was  speaking. 

"  Is  it  yours,  this  goat  1 "  asked  the  girl  again. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  said,  and  looked  up. 

"  I  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  the  goat.  You  will  not  give  it 
to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  that  I  won't," 

She  lay  kicking  her  legs,  and  looking  down  at  him,  and  then 
she  said,  "  But  if  I  give  you  a  butter-cake  for  the  goat,  can  I 
have  him  then  'I " 

Oeyvind  came  of  poor  people,  and  had  eaten  butter-cake  only 
once  in  his  life,  that  was  when  grandpapa  came  there,  and  any- 
thing like  it  he  had  never-  eaten  before  nor  since.  He  looked  up 
at  the  girl.      "  Let  me  see  the  butter-cake  first,"  said  he. 

She  was  not  long  about  it,  took  out  a  large  cake,  which  she  held 
in  her  hand.     "  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  threw  it  down. 

"  Ow,  it  went  to  pieces,"  said  the  boy.  He  gathered  up  every 
bit  with  the  utmost  care  ;  he  could  not  help  tasting  the  very- 
smallest,  and  that  was  so  good,  he  had  to  taste  another,  and,  before 
he  knew  it  himself,  he  had  eaten  up  the  whole  cake. 

"  Now  the  goat  is  mine,"  said  the  girl.  The  boy  stopped  with 
the  last  bit  in  his  mouth,  the  girl  lay  and  laughed,  and  the  goat 
stood  by  her  side,  with  white  breast  and  dark  brown  hair,  looking 
sideways  down. 

"  Could  you  not  wait  a  little  while  ? "  begged  the  boy  ;  his  heart 
began  to  beat,  Then  the  girl  laughed  still  more,  and  got  up  quick- 
ly on  her  knees. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  HI 

"  No,  the  goat  is  mine,"  she  said,  and  threw  her  arms  round  its 
neck,  loosened  one  of  her  garters,  and  fastened  it  round.  Oeyvind 
looked  up.  She  got  up,  and  began  pulling  at  the  goat ;  it  would 
not  follow,  and  twisted  its  neck  downwards  to  where  Oeyvind 
stood.  "  Bay-ay-ay,"  it  said.  But  she  took  hold  of  its  hair  with 
one  hand,  pulled  the  string  with  the  other,  and  said  gently,  "Come, 
goat,  and  you  shall  go  into  the  room  and  eat  out  of  mother's  dish 
and  my  apron."     And  then  she  sung,  — 

"  Come,  boy's  goat, 
Come,  mother's  calf, 
Come,  mewing  cat 
In  snow-white  shoes. 
Come,  yellow  ducks, 
Come  out  of  your  hiding-place  ; 
Come,  little  chickens, 
Who  can  hardly  go  J 
Come,  my  doves 
With  soft  feathers  ; 
See,  the  grass  is  wet, 
But  the  sun  does  you  good  ; 
And  early,  early  is  it  in  summer, 
But  call  for  the  autumn,  and  it  will  come. " 

There  stood  the  boy. 

He  had  taken  care  of  the  goat  since  the  winter  before,  when  it 
was  born,  and  he  had  never  imagined  he  could  lose  it ;  but  now  it 
was  done  in  a  moment,  and  he  should  never  see  it  again. 

His  mother  came  up  humming  from  the  beach,  with  wooden 
pans  which  she  had  scoured  :  she  saw  the  boy  sitting  with  his  legs 
crossed  under  him  on  the  grass,  crying,  and  she  went  up  to  him. 

"  What  are  you  crying  about  1" 

"  0,  the  goat,  the  goat !  " 

"  Yes  ;  where  is  the  goat  ? "  asked  his  mother,  looking  up  at 
the  roof. 

"  It  will  never  come  back  again,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Dear  me  !  how  could  that  happen  1 " 

He  would  not  confess  immediately. 

"  Has  the  fox  taken  it  1 " 


112  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PIiO.SE. 

"  Ah,  if  it  only  were  the  fox  !  " 

"  Are  you  crazy  ? "  said  his  mother  ;  "  what  lias  become  of  the 
goat?" 

"  Oh-h-h  —  I  happened  to  —  to  —  to  sell  it  for  a  cake  !  " 

As  soon  as  he  had  uttered  the  word,  he  understood  what  it  was 
to  sell  the  goat  for  a  cake  ;  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  His 
mother  said,  — ■ 

"  What  do  you  suppose  the  little  goat  thinks  of  you,  when  you 
could  sell  him  for  a  cake  ? " 

And  the  boy  thought  about  it,  and  felt  sure  that  he  could  never 
again  be  happy  in  this  world,  and  not  even  in  heaven,  he  thought 
afterwards.  He  felt  so  sorry,  that  he  promised  himself  never 
again  to  do  anything  wrong,  never  to  cut  the  thread  on  the  spin- 
ning-wheel, nor  let  the  goats  out,  nor  go  down  to  the  sea  alone. 
He  fell  asleep  where  he  lay,  and  dreamed  about  the  goat,  that  it 
had  gone  to  Heaven  ;  our  Lord  sat  there  with  a  great  beard  as  in 
the  catechism,  and  the  goat  stood  eating  the  leaves  off  a  shin- 
ing tree ;  but  Oeyvind  sat  alone  on  the  roof,  and  could  not 
come  up. 

Suddenly  there  came  something  wet  close  up  to  his  ear,  and  he 
started  up.  "  Bay-ay-ay  !  "  it  said  ;  and  it  was  the  goat,  who  had 
come  back  again. 

"  What  !  have  you  got  back  ? "  He  jumped  up,  took  it  by  the 
two  fore  legs,  and  danced  with  it  as  if  it  were  a  brother  ;  he  pulled 
its  beard,  and  he  was  just  going  in  to  his  mother  with  it,  when  he 
heard  some  one  behind  him,  and,  looking,  saw  the  girl  sitting  on 
the  greensward  by  his  side.  Xow  he  understood  it  all,  and  let  go 
the  goat. 

"  Is  it  you,  who  have  come  with  it?" 

She  sat,  tearing  the  grass  up  with  her  hands,  and  said,  — 

"  They  would  not  let  me  keep  it ;  grandfather  is  sitting  up 
there,  waiting." 

While  the  boy  stood  looking  at  her,  he  heard  a  sharp  voice  from 
the  road  above  call  out,  "  Now  !  " 

Then  she  remembered  what  she  was  to  do  ;  she  rose,  went  over 


STORIES  OF   CHILD  LIFE.  115 

for  it  would  not  go  right.  And  the  farther  along  he  came,  the 
more  he  forgot  what  they  were  :  he  remembered  longest  a,  which 
he  liked  best  ;  it  was  a  little  black  lamb,  and  was  friends  with 
everybody ;  but  soon  he  forgot  a  also  :  the  book  had  no  more 
stories,  nothing  but  lessons. 

One  day  his  mother  came  in,  and  said  to  him,  — 

"  To-morrow  school  begins,  and  then  you  are  going  up  to  the 
farm  with  me." 

Oeyvind  had  heard  that  school  was  a  place  where  many  boys 
played  together  ;  and  he  had  no  objection.  Indeed,  he  was  much 
pleased.  He  had  often  been  at  the  farm,  but  never  when  there  was 
school  there  ;  and  now  he  was  so  anxious  to  get  there,  he  walked 
faster  than  his  mother  up  over  the  hills.  As  they  came  up  to  the 
neighboring  house,  a  tremendous  buzzing,  like  that  from  the  water- 
mill  at  home,  met  their  ears ;  and  he  asked  his  mother  what  it 
was. 

"  That  is  the  children  reading,"  she  answered ;  and  he  was 
much  pleased,  for  that  was  the  way  he  used  to  read,  before  he 
knew  the  letters.  When  he  came  in,  there  sat  as  many  children 
round  a  table  as  he  had  ever  seen  at  church ;  others  were  sitting 
on  their  luncheon-boxes,  which  were  ranged  round  the  walls  ;  some 
stood  in  small  groups  round  a  large  printed  card  ;  the  schoolmaster, 
an  old  gray-haired  man,  was  sitting  on  a  stool  by  the  chimney- 
corner,  filling  his  pipe.  They  all  looked  up  as  Oeyvind  and  his 
mother  entered,  and  the  mill-hum  ceased  as  if  the  water  had  sud- 
denly been  turned  off.  All  looked  at  the  new-comers  ;  the  mother 
bowed  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  returned  her  greeting. 

"  Here  I  bring  a  little  boy  who  wants  to  learn  to  read,"  said  his 
mother. 

"  What  is  the  fellow's  name  1 "  said  the  schoolmaster,  diving 
down  into  his  pouch  after  tobacco. 

"  Oeyvind,"  said  his  mother  ;  "  he  knows  his  letters,  and  can 
put  them  together." 

"  Is  it  possible  ! "  said  the  schoolmaster ;  "  come  here,  you 
Whitehead !  " 


H(;  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

Oeyvind  went  over  to  him  :  the  schoolmaster  took  him  on  his 
lap,  and  raised  his  cap. 

"What  a  nice  little  hoy  !  "  said  lie,  and  stroked  his  hair.  Oey- 
vind  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  and  laughed. 

"  Is  it  at  me  you  are  laughing? "  asked  he,  with  a  frown. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  answered  Oeyvind,  and  roared  with  laughter.  At 
that  the  schoolmaster  laughed,  Oeyvind's  mother  laughed  ;  the 
children  understood  that  they  also  were  allowed  to  laugh,  and  so 
they  all  laughed  together. 

So  Oeyvind  became  one  of  the  scholars. 

As  he  was  going  to  find  his  seat,  they  all  wanted  to  make  room 
for  him.  He  looked  round  a  long  time,  while  they  whispered  and 
pointed ;  he  turned  round'  on  all  sides,  with  his  cap  hi  his  hand 
and  his  book  under  his  arm. 

"  Xow,  what  are  you  going  to  do  % "  asked  the  schoolmaster, 
who  was  busy  with  his  pipe  again.  Just  as  the  boy  is  going  to 
turn  round  to  the  schoolmaster,  he  sees  close  beside  him,  sitting 
down  by  the  hearthstone  on  a  little  red  painted  tub,  Marit,  of  the 
many  names ;  she  had  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  and  sat 
peeping  at  him  through  her  fingers. 

"  I  shall  sit  here,"  said  Oeyvind,  quickly,  taking  a  tub  and 
seating  himself  at  her  side.  Then  she  raised  a  little  the  arm 
nearest  him,  and  looked  at  him  from  under  her  elbow  ;  immedi- 
ately he  also  hid  his  face  with  both  hands,  and  looked  at  her  from 
under  his  elbow.  So  they  sat,  keeping  up  the  sport,  until  she 
laughed,  then  he  laughed  too  ;  the  children  had  seen  it,  and  laughed 
with  them  ;  at  that,  there  rung  out  in  a  fearfully  strong  voice,  which, 
however,  grew  milder  at  every  pause,  — 

"  Silence  !  you  young  scoundrels,  you  rascals,  you  little  good- 
for-nothings  !  keep  still,  and  be  good  to  me,  you  sugar-pigs." 

That  was  the  schoolmaster,  whose  custom  it  was  to  boil  up,  but 
calm  down  again  before  he  had  finished.  It  grew  quiet  immedi- 
ately in  the  school,  until  the  water-wheels  again  began  to  go: 
every  one  read  aloud  from  his  book,  the  sharpest  trebles  piped  up, 
the  rougher  voices  drummed  louder  and  louder  to  get  the  prepon- 


STORIES  OF  CHILD* LIFE.  Wj 

derance ;   here  and  there  one  shouted  in  above  the  others,  and 
Oeyvind  had  never  had  such  fun  in  all  his  life. 

"  Is  it  always  like  this  here  1  "  whispered  he  to  Marit. 

"  Yes,  just  like  this,"  she  said. 

Afterwards,  they  had  to  go  up  to  the  schoolmaster,  and  read  ; 
and  then  a  little  boy  was  called  to  read,  so  that  they  were  allowed 
to  go  and  sit  down  quietly  again. 

"  I  have  got  a  goat  now,  too,"  said  she. 

"  Have  you  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  not  so  pretty  as  yours." 

"  Why  don't  you  come  oftener  up  on  the  cliff  ? " 

"  Grandpapa  is  afraid  I  shall  fall  over." 

"  But  it  is  not  so  very  high." 

"  Grandpapa  won't  let  me,  for  all  that." 

"  Mother  knows  so  many  songs,"  said  he. 

"  Grandpapa  does,  too,  you  can  believe." 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  does  not  know  what  mother  does." 

"  Grandpapa  knows  one  about  a  dance.  Would  you  like  to 
hear  it  1 " 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  come  farther  over  here,  so  that  the 
schoolmaster  may  not  hear." 

He  changed  his  place,  and  then  she  recited  a  little  piece  of  a 
song  three  or  four  times  over,  so  that  the  boy  learned  it,  and  that 
was  the  first  he  learned  at  school. 

"  Up  with  you,  youngsters ! "  called  out  the  schoolmaster. 
"  This  is  the  first  day,  so  you  shall  he  dismissed  early  ;  but  first 
we  must  say  a  prayer,  and  sing." 

Instantly,  all  was  life  in  the  school ;  they  jumped  down  from 
the  benches,  sprung  over  the  floor,  and  talked  into  each  other's 
mouths. 

"  Silence  !  you  young  torments,  you  little  beggars,  you  noisy 
boys  !  be  quiet,  and  walk  softly  across  the  floor,  little  children," 
said  the  schoolmaster  ;  and  now  they  walked  quietly,  and  took  their 
places  ;  after  which  the  schoolmaster  went  in  front  of  them,  and 


118 


CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 


made  a  short  prayer.     Then  they  sung.     The  schoolmaster  began  in 
a  deep  bass  ;  all  the  children  stood  with  folded  hands,  and  joined 
in.     Oeyvind  stood  farthest  down  by  the  door  with  Marit,  and 
looked  on ;  they  also  folded  their  hands,  but  they  could  not  sing. 
That  was  the  hrst  day  at  school. 

"  The  Happy  Boy." 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  119 


BOOTS  AT  THE   HOLLY-TREE  INN. 

BEFOEE  the  days  of  railways,  and  in  the  time  of  the  old  Great 
North  Eoad,  I  was  once  snowed  up  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn. 
Beguiling  the  days  of  my  imprisonment  there  hy  talking  at  one 
time  or  other  with  the  whole  establishment,  I  one  clay  talked  with 
the  Boots,  when  he  lingered  in  my  room. 

Where  had  he  been  in  his  time  1  Boots  repeated,  when  I  asked 
him  the  cp^estion.  Lord,  he  had  been  everywhere  !  And  what  had 
he  been]     Bless  you,  everything  you  could  mention,  a'most. 

Seen  a  good  deal  ]  Why,  of  course  he  had.  I  should  say  so, 
he  could  assure  me,  if  I  only  knew  about  a  twentieth  part  of  what 
had  come  in  his  way.  Why,  it  would  be  easier  for  him,  he  ex- 
pected, to  tell  what  he  had  n't  seen  than  what  he  had.  Ah !  a 
deal  it  would. 

What  was  the  curiousest  thing  he  had  seen  1  Well !  He  did 
n't  know.  He  could  n't  momently  name  what  was  the  curiousest 
thing  he  had  seen,  —  unless  it  was  a  Unicorn,  —  and  he  see  him 
once  at  a  Fair.  But  supposing  a  young  gentleman  not  eight  year 
old  was  to  run  away  with  a  fine  young  woman  of  seven,  might  I 
think  that  a  cpueer  start  1  Certainly  !  Then  that  was  a  start  as  he 
himself  had  had  his  blessed  eyes  on,  —  and  he  had  cleaned  the 
shoes  they  run  away  in,  —  and  they  was  so  little  that  he  could  n't 
get  his  hand  into  'em. 

Master  Harry  Walmers's  father,  you  see,  he  lived  at  the  Elmses, 
down  away  by  Shooter's  Hill  there,  six  or  seven  miles  from  Lun- 
non.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  spirit,  and  good-looking,  and  held 
his  head  up  when  he  walked,  and  had  what  you  may  call  Fire 
about  him.  He  wrote  poetry,  and  he  rode,  and  he  ran,  and  he 
cricketed,  and  he  danced,  and  he  acted,  and  he  done  it  all  equally 
beautiful.     He  was  uncommon  proud  of  Master  Harry  as  was  his 


120  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

only  child  ;  hut  he  did  n't  spoil  him,  neither.  He  was  &  gentle- 
man that  had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  a  eye  of  his  own,  and  that 
would  he  minded.  Consequently,  though  he  made  quite  a  com- 
panion of  the  fine  bright  boy,  and  was  delighted  to  see  him  so 
fond  of  reading  his  fairy  books,  and  was  never  tired  of  hearing 
him  say  my  name  is  Norval,  or  hearing  him  sing  his  songs  about 
Young  May  Moons  is  beaming  love,  and  When  he  as  adores  thee 
has  left  but  the  name,  and  that,  —  still  he  kept  the  command 
over  the  child,  and  the  child  was  a  child,  and  it 's  wery  much  to 
be  wished  more  of  'em  was  ! 

How  did  Boots  happen  to  know  all  this  1  Why,  sir,  through 
being  uncler-gardener.  Of  course  I  could  n't  be  undergardener, 
and  be  always  about,  in  the  summer  time,  near  the  windows  on 
the  lawn,  a  mowing  and  sweeping,  and  weeding  and  pruning,  and 
this  and  that,  without  getting  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the 
family.  Even  supposing  Master  Harry  had  n't  come  to  me  one 
morning  early,  and  said,  "  Cobbs,  how  should  you  spell  Norah,  if 
you  was  asked  1 "  and  when  I  give  him  my  views,  sir,  respectin' 
the  spelling  o'  that  name,  he  took  out  his  little  knife,  and  he 
begun  a  cutting  it  in  print,  all  over  the  fence. 

And  the  courage  of  the  boy  !  Bless  your  soul,  he  'd  have 
throwed  off  his  little  hat,  and  tucked  up  his  little  sleeves,  and 
gone  in  at  a  Lion,  he  would.  One  day  he  stops,  along  with  her 
(where  I  was  hoeing  weeds  in  the  gravel),  and  says,  speaking  up, 
"  Cobbs,"  he  says,  "  I  like  i/ou."  "  Do  you,  sir  1  I  'm  proud  to 
hear  it."  "  Yes,  I  do,  Cobbs.  Why  do  I  like  you,  do  you  think, 
Cobbs  1 "  "  Don't  know,  Master  Harry,  I  am  sure."  "  Because 
Norah  likes  you,  Cobbs."  "  Indeed,  sir  ?  That 's  very  gratify- 
ing." "  Gratifjing,  Cobbs  1  It  's  better  than  millions  of  the 
brightest  diamonds,  to  be  liked  by  Xorah."  "  Certainly,  sir." 
"  You  're  going  away,  ain't  you,  Cobbs  1  "  "  Yes,  sir."  "  Would 
you  like  another  situation,  Cobbs  1 "  "  Well,  sir,  I  should  n't  ob- 
ject, if  it  was  a  good  'un."  "  Then,  Cobbs,"  says  that  mite,  "  you 
shall  be  our  Head  Gardener  when  we  are  married."  And  he  tucks 
her,  in  her  little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm,  and  walks  away. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  121 

Boots  could  assure  me  that  it  was  better  than  a  picter,  and  equal 
to  a  play,  to  see  them  babies  with  their  long  bright  curling  hair, 
their  sparkling  eyes,  and  their  beautiful  light  tread,  rambling 
about  the  garden,  deep  in  love.  Boots  was  of  opinion  that  the 
birds  believed  they  was  birds,  and  kept  up  with  'em,  singing  to 
please  'em.  Sometimes  they  would  creep  under  the  Tulip-tree,  and 
would  sit  there  with  their  arms  round  one  another's  necks,  and 
their  soft  cheeks  touching,  a  reading  about  the  Prince,  and  the 
Dragon,  and  the  good  and  bad  enchanters,  and  the  king's  fair 
daughter.  Sometimes  I  would  hear  them  planning  about  having 
a  house  in  a  forest,  keeping  bees  and  a  cow,  and  living  entirely  on 
milk  and  honey.  Once  I  came  upon  them  by  the  pond,  and  heard 
Master  Harry  say,  "  Adorable  Norah,  kiss  me,  and  say  you  love 
me  to  distraction,  or  I  '11  jump  in  head-foremost."  On  the  whole, 
sir,  the  contemplation  o'  them  two  babies  had  a  tendency  to  make 
me  feel  as  if  I  was  in  love  myself,  —  only  I  did  n't  exactly  know 
who  with. 

"  Cobbs,"  says  Master  Harry,  one  evening,  when  I  was  watering 
the  flowers  ;  "  I  am  going  on  a  visit,  this  present  midsummer,  to 
my  grandmamma's  at  York." 

"  Are  you  indeed,  sir  1  I  hope  you  '11  have  a  pleasant  time.  I 
am  going  into  Yorkshire,  myself,  when  I  leave  here." 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  grandmamma's,  Cobbs  1 " 

"  No,  sir.     I  have  n't  got  such  a  thing." 

"  Not  as  a  grandmamma,  Cobbs  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

The  boy  looks  on  at  the  watering  of  the  flowers  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  he  says,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  to  go, 
Cobbs,  —  Norah  's  going." 

"  You  '11  be  all  right  then,  sir,  with  your  beautiful  sweetheart  by 
your  side." 

"  Cobbs,"  returns  the  boy,  a  flushing,  "  I  never  let  anybody 
joke  about  that  when  I  can  prevent  them." 

"  It  was  n't  a  joke,  sir,  —  was  n't  so  meant." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  Cobbs,  because  I  like  you,  you  know,  and 
you  're  going  to  live  with  us,  —  Cobbs  !  " 


122  CHILD  LIFE  IN   PliUSE. 

"  Sir." 

"  What  do  you  think  my  grandmamma  gives  me,  when  I  go 
down  there  1 " 

"  I  could  n't  so  much  as  make  a  guess,  sir." 

"  A  Bank  of  England  five-pound  note,  Cobbs." 

"  Whew  !     That 's  a  spanking  sum  of  money,  Master  Harry." 

"  A  person  could  do  a  good  deal  with  such  a  sum  of  money  as 
that.     Could  n't  a  person,  Cobbs  1 " 

"  I  believe  you,  sir  !  " 

"  Cobbs,"  says  that  boy,  "  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret.  At  Xorah's 
house  they  have  been  joking  her  about  me,  and  pretending  to 
laugh  at  our  being  engaged.  Pretending  to  make  game  of  it, 
Cobbs ! " 

"  Such,  sir,  is  the  depravity  of  human  natur." 

The  boy,  looking  exactly  like  his  father,  stood  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  departed  with,  "  Good  night,  Cobbs.     I  'm  going  in." 

If  I  was  to  ask  Boots  how  it  happened  that  I  was  a  going 
to  leave  that  place  just  at  that  present  time,  well,  I  could  n't 
rightly  answer  you,  sir.  I  do  suppose  I  might  have  stayed  there 
till  now,  if  I  had  been  anyways  inclined.  But  you  see,  he  was 
younger  then,  and  he  wanted  change.  That 's  what  I  wanted,  — 
change.  Mr.  Wabners,  he  says  to  me,  when  I  give  him  notice  of 
my  intentions  to  leave,  "  Cobbs,"  he  says,  "  have  you  anything  to 
complain  of  1  I  make  the  inquiry,  because  if  I  find  that  any  of 
my  people  really  has  anythink  to  complain  of,  I  wish  to  make  it 
right  if  I  can." 

"  No,  sir ;  thanking  you,  sir,  I  find  myself  as  well  sitiwated 
here  as  I  could  hope  to  be  anywheres.  The  truth  is,  sir,  that  I  'm  a 
going  to  seek  my  fortun." 

"0,  indeed,  Cobbs  1"  he  says;  "I  hope  you  may  find  it." 
And  Boots  could  assure  me  —  which  he  did,  touching  his  hair 
with  his  bootjack  —  that  he  had  n't  found  it  yet. 

"  Well,  sir  !  I  left  the  Elmses  when  my  time  was  up,  and  Master 
Harry,  he  went  down  to  the  old  lady's  at  York,  which  old  lady 
were  so  wrapped  up  in  that  child  as  she  would  have  give  that  child 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  123 

the  teeth  out  of  her  head  (if  she  had  had  any).  What  does  that 
Infant  do  —  for  Infant  you  may  call  him,  and  be  within  the  mark 
—  but  cut  away  from  that  old  lady's  with  his  Norah,  on  a  expedi- 
tion to  go  to  Gretna  Green  and  be  married  ! 

Sir,  I  was  at  this  identical  Holly-Tree  Inn  (having  left  it 
several  times  since  to  better  myself,  but  always  come  back  through 
one  thing  or  another),  when,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  coach 
drives  up,  and  out  of  the  coach  gets  them  two  children.  The 
Guard  says  to  our  Governor,  "  I  don't  quite  make  out  these  little 
passengers,  but  the  young  gentleman's  words  was,  that  they  was  to 
be  brought  here."  The  young  gentleman  gets  out ;  hands  his  lady 
out ;  gives  the  Guard  something  for  himself ;  says  to  our  Governor, 
"  We  're  to  stop  here  to-night,  please.  Sitting-room  and  two  bed- 
rooms will  be  required.  Mutton  chops  and  cherry  pudding  for 
two  !  "  and  tucks  her,  in  her  little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his 
arm,  and  walks  into  the  house  much  bolder  than  Brass. 

Sir,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  the  amazement  of  that  establish- 
ment was,  when  those  two  tiny  creatures  all  alone  by  themselves 
was  marched  into  the  Angel ;  much  more  so,  when  I,  who  had 
seen  them  without  their  seeing  me,  give  the  Governor  my  views  of 
the  expedition  they  was  upon. 

"  Cobbs,"  says  the  Governor,  "  if  this  is  so,  I  must  set  off  my- 
self to  York  and  quiet  their  friends'  minds.  In  which  ease  you 
must  keep  your  eye  upon  'em,  and  humor  'em,  till  I  come  back. 
But  before  I  take  these  measures,  Cobbs,  I  should  wish  you  to  find 
from  themselves  whether  your  opinions  is  correct."  "  Sir  to  you," 
says  I,   "  that  shall  be  clone  directly." 

So  Boots  goes  up  stairs  to  the  Angel,  and  there  he  finds  Master 
Harry  on  a  e-normous  sofa,  —  immense  at  any  time,  but  looking 
like  the  Great  Bed  of  Ware,  compared  with  him,  —  a  drying  the 
eyes  of  Miss  Norah  with  his  pocket-hankecher.  Their  little  legs 
was  entirely  off  the  ground,  of  course  ;  and  it  really  is  not  possible 
to  express  how  small  them  children  looked. 

"  It 's  Cobbs  !  It 's  Cobbs  !  "  cries  Master  Harry,  and  he  comes 
running  to  me  and  catching  hold  of  my  hand.     Miss  Norah,  she 


124 


1 7/ J/J)  J  JFK  IX  PROSE. 


comes  running  to  me  on  t'  other  side  and  catching  hold  of  my 
t'  other  hand,  and  they  both  jump  for  joy. 

"  I  see  you  a  getting  out,  sir,"  says  I.  "  I  thought  it  was  you. 
I  thought  I  could  n't  be  mistaken  in  your  heighth  and  figure. 
What 's  the  object  of  your  journey,  sir  \  —  Matrimonial  I " 

"  We  are  going  to  be  married,  Cobbs,  at  Gretna  Green,"  returns 
the  boy.     "  We  have  run  away  on  purpose.     Norah   has  been  in 


rather  low  spirits,  Cobbs  ;  but  she  '11  be  happy,  now  we  have 
found  you  to  be  our  friend." 

"  Thank  you  sir,  and  thank  you,  miss,  for  your  good  opinion. 
Did  you  bring  any  luggage  with  you,  sir  1 " 

If  I  will  believe  Boots  when  he  gives  me  his  word  and  honor 
upon  it,  the  lady  had  got  a  parasol,  a  smelling-bottle,  a  round  and 
a  half  of  cold  buttered  toast,  eight  peppermint  drops,  and  a  Doll's 
hairbrush.     The  gentleman  bad  got  about  half  a  dozen  yards  of 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  125 

string,  a  knife,  three  or  four  sheets  of  writing-paper  folded  up  sur- 
prisingly small,  a  orange,  and  a  Chaney  mug  with  his  name  on  it. 

"  What  may  be  the  exact  natur  of  your  plans,  sir  1 "  says  I. 

"To  go  on,"  replies  the  hoy,  — which  the  courage  of  that  boy 
was  something  wonderful!  —  "in  the '  morning,  and  be  married 
to-morrow." 

"  Just  so,  sir.  Would  it  meet  your  views,  sir,  if  I  was  to  ac- 
company you  1 " 

They  both  jumped  for  joy  again,  and  cried  out,  "  0  yes,  yes, 
Cobbs  !     Yes  !  " 

"  Well,  sir,  if  you  will  excuse  my  having  the  freedom  to  give 
an  opinion,  what  I  should  recommend  would  be  this.  I  'm  ac- 
quainted with  a  pony,  sir,  which,  put  in  a  pheayton  that  I  could 
borrow,  would  take  you  and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  (driving 
myself  if  you  approved,)  to  the  end  of  your  journey  in  a  very 
short  space  of  time.  I  am  not  altogether  sure,  sir,  that  this  pony 
will  be  at  liberty  till  to-morrow,  but  even  if  you  had  to  wait  over 
to-morrow  for  him,  it  might  be  worth  your  while.  As  to  the  small 
account  here,  sir,  in  case  you  was  to  find  yourself  running  at  all 
short,  that  don't  signify  ;  because  I  'm  a  part  proprietor  of  this 
inn,  and  it  could  stand  over." 

Boots  assures  me  that  when  they  clapped  their  hands,  and 
jumped  for  joy  again,  and  called  him,  "  Good  Cobbs  !  "  and  "  Dear 
Cobbs  ! "  and  bent  across  him  to  kiss  one  another  in  the  delight 
of  their  confiding  hearts,  he  felt  himself  the  meanest  rascal,  for 
deceiving  'em,  that  ever  was  born. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  just  at  present,  sivl"  I  says,  mor- 
tally ashamed  of  myself. 

"  We  should  like  some  cakes  after  dinner,"  answers  Master 
Harry,  "and  two  apples  —  and  jam.  With  dinner  we  should  like 
to  have  toast  and  water.  But  Norah  has  always  been  accustomed 
to  half  a  glass  of  currant  wine  at  dessert.     And  so  have  I." 

"  It  shall  be  ordered  at  the  bar,  sir,"  I  says. 

Sir,  I  has  the  feeling  as  fresh  upon  me  at  this  minute  of  speak- 
ing as  I  had  then,  that  I  would  far  rather  have  had  it  out  in  half 


12(J  CHILD   LIFE  IX  I'liOSE. 

a  dozen  rounds  with  the  Governor,  than  have  combined  with  him ; 
and  that  I  wished  with  all  my  heart  there  was  any  impossible  place 
where  those  two  babies  could  make  an  impossible  marriage,  and 
live  impossibly  happy  ever  afterwards.  However,  as  it  could  u't 
be,  I  went  into  the  Governor's  plans,  and  the  Governor  set  off  for 
York  in  half  an  hour. 

The  way  in  which  the  women  of  that  house  —  without  excep- 
tion —  every  one  of  'em  —  married  and  single  —  took  to  that  boy 
when  they  heard  the  story,  is  surprising.  It  was  as  much  as  could 
be  done  to  keep  'em  from  dashing  into  the  room  and  kissing  him. 
They  climbed  up  all  sorts  of  places,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  to 
look  at  him  through  a  pane  of  glass.  And  they  were  seven  deep 
at  the  keyhole. 

In  the  evening,  I  went  into  the  room  to  see  how  the  runaway 
couple  was  getting  on.  The  gentleman  was  on  the  window-seat, 
supporting  the  lady  in  his  arms.  She  had  tears  upon  her  face, 
and  was  lying,  very  tired  and  half  asleep,  with  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  Mrs.  Harry  "Walmers,  Junior,  fatigued,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  is  tired,  Cobbs  ;  but  she  is  not  used  to  he  away  from 
home,  and  she  has  been  in  low  spirits  again.  Cobbs,  do  you 
think  you  could  bring  a  biffin,  please  ? " 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir.     What  was  it  you  —  " 

"  I  think  a  Xorfolk  biffin  would  rouse  her,  Cobbs.  She  is  very 
fond  of  them." 

Well,  sir,  I  withdrew  in  search  of  the  required  restorative,  and 
the  gentleman  handed  it  to  the  lady,  and  fed  her  with  a  spoon, 
and  took  a  little  himself.  The  lady  being  heavy  with  sleep,  and 
rather  cross,  "What  should  you  think,  sir,"  I  says,  "  of  a  chamber 
candlestick  1 "  The  gentleman  approved  ;  the  chambermaid  went 
first  up  the  great  staircase ;  the  lady,  in  her  sky-blue  mantle,  fol- 
lowed, gallantly  escorted  by  the  gentleman  :  the  gentleman  em- 
braced her  at  her  door,  and  retired  to  his  own  apartment,  where  I 
locked  him  up. 

Boots  could  n't  but   feel  with   increased  acuteness   what   a   base 


STORIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  127 

deceiver  he  was,  when  they  consulted  him  at  breakfast  (they  had 
ordered  sweet  milk-and-water,  and  toast  and  currant  jelly,  over 
night)  about  the  pony.  It  really  was  as  much  as  he  could  do,  he 
don't  mind  confessing  to  me,  to  look  them  two  young  things  in  the 
face,  and  think  what  a  wicked  old  father  of  lies  he  had  grown  up 
to  be.  Howsomever,  sir,  I  went  on  a  lying  like  a  Trojan  about  the 
pony.  I  told  'em  that  it  did  so  unfort'nately  happen  that  the 
pony  was  half  clipped,  you  see,  and  that  he  could  n't  be  took  out 
in  that  state,  for  fear  it  should  strike  to  his  inside.  But  that  he  'd 
be  finished  clipping  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  that  to-morrow 
morning  at  eight  o'clock  the  pheayton  would  be  ready.  Boots's 
view  of  the  whole  case,  looking  back  upon  it  in  my  room,  is,  that 
Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  was  beginning  to  give  in.  She  had 
n't  had  her  hair  curled  when  she  went  to  bed,  and  she  did  n't 
seem  quite  up  to  brushing  it  herself,  and  its  getting  in  her  eyes 
put  her  out.  But  nothing  put  out  Master  Harry.  He  sat  behind 
his  breakfast-cup,  a  tearing  away  at  the  jelly,  as  if  he  had  been  his 
own  father. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  Master  Harry  rung  the  bell,  —  it 
was  surprising  how  that  there  boy  did  carry  on,  —  and  said,  in  a 
sprightly  way,  "  Cobbs,  is  there  any  good  walks  in  this  neighbor- 
hood 1 " 

"  Yes,  sir.     There  's  Love  Lane." 

"  Get  out  with  you,  Cobbs  !  "  —  that  was  that  there  boy's  ex- 
pression, —  "  you  're  joking." 

■ "  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  there  really  is  Love  Lane ;  and  a 
pleasant  walk  it  is,  and  proud  shall  I  be  to  show  it  to  yourself  and 
Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior." 

"  Norah,  dear,"  says  Master  Harry,  "  this  is  curious.  We  really 
ought  to  see  Love  Lane.  Put  on  your  bonnet,  my  sweetest  dar- 
ling, and  we  will  go  there  with  Cobbs." 

Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  a  Beast  he  felt  himself  to  be, 
when  that  young  pair  told  him,  as  they  all  three  jogged  along  to- 
gether, that  they  had  made  up  their  minds  to  give  him  two  thou- 
sand guineas  a  year  as  head  gardener,  on   account   of  his  being  so 


128  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

true  a  friend  to  'em.  Well,  sir,  I  turned  the  conversation  as  well 
as  I  could,  and  I  took  'em  down  Love  Lane  to  the  water-meadows, 
and  there  Master  Harry  would  have  drowned  himself  in  a  half  a 
moment  more,  a  getting  out  a  water-lily  for  her,  —  but  nothing 
daunted  that  boy.  Well,  sir,  they  was  tired  out.  All  being  so 
new  and  strange  to  'em,  they  was  tired  as  tired  could  be.  And 
they  laid  down  on  a  bank  of  daisies,  like  the  children  in  the  wood, 
leastways  meadows,  and  fell  asleep. 

I  don't  know,  sir,  —  perhaps  you  do,  —  why  it  made  a  man  lit 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  to  see  them  two  pretty  babies  a  lying 
there  in  the  clear  still  sunny  day,  not  dreaming  half  so  hard  when 
they  was  asleep  as  they  done  when  they  was  awake.  But  Lord  ! 
when  you  come  to  think  of  yourself,  you  know,  and  what  a  game 
you  have  been  up  to  ever  since  you  was  in  your  own  cradle,  and 
what  a  poor  sort  of  a  chap  you  are,  arter  all,  that  's  where  it  is ! 
Don't  you  see,  sir  1 

Well,  sir,  they  woke  up  at  last,  and  then  one  thing  was  getting 
pretty  clear  to  me,  namely,  that  Mrs.  Harry  Walmerses,  Junior's, 
temper  was  on  the  move.  When  Master  Harry  took  her  round 
the  waist,  she  said  he  "  teased  her  so  " ;  and  when  he  says,  "  Xorah, 
my  young  May  Moon,  your  Harry  tease  you  ? "  she  tells  him, 
"  Yes  ;  and  I  want  to  go  home  !  " 

A  biled  fowl  and  baked  bread-and-butter  pudding  brought  Mrs. 
Walmers  up  a  little  ;  but  I  could  have  wished,  I  must  privately 
own  to  you,  sir,  to  have  seen  her  more  sensible  of  the  woice  of 
love,  and  less  abandoning  of  herself  to  the  currants  in  the  pud- 
ding. However,  Master  Harry,  he  kep'  up,  and  his  noble  heart 
was  as  fond  as  ever.  Mrs.  Walmers  turned  very  sleepy  about 
dusk,  and  begun  to  cry.  Therefore,  Mrs.  Walmers  went  off  to 
bed  as  per  yesterday  ;  and  Master  Harry  ditto  repeated. 

About  eleven  or  twelve  at  night  comes  back  the  Governor  in  a 
chaise,  along  with  Mr.  Walmers  and  a  elderly  lady.  Mr.  Walmers 
says  to  our  missis  :  "  We  are  much  indebted  to  you,  ma'am,  for 
your  kind  care  of  our  little  children,  which  we  can  never  suffi- 
ciently  acknowledge.     Pray,    ma'am,   where   is   my  boy  1 "      Our 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  129 

missis  says  :  "  CoTjbs  has  the  dear  child  in  charge,  sir.  Cobbs, 
show  Forty  !  "  Then  Mr.  Walmers,  he  says  :  "  Ah,  Cobbs  !  I  am 
glad  to  see  you.  I  understood  you  was  here  ! "  And  I  says  : 
"  Yes,  sir.     Your  most  obedient,  sir." 

"  I  beg  your  -pardon,  sir,"  I  adds,  while  unlocking  the  door ;  "  I 
hope  you  are  not  angry  with  Master  Harry.  For  Master  Harry  is 
a  fine  boy,  sir,  and  will  do  you  credit  and  honor."  And  Boots 
signifies  to  me,  that  if  the  fine  boy's  father  had  contradicted  him 
in  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  then  was,  he  thinks  he  should 
have  "  fetched  him  a  crack,"  and  took  the  consequences. 

But  Mr.  Walmers  only  says,  "  No,  Cobbs.  ]STo,  my  good  fel- 
low. Thank  you  !  "  and,  the  door  being  opened,  goes  in,  goes  up 
to  the  bedside,  bends  gently  down,  and  kisses  the  little  sleeping 
face.  Then  he  stands  looking  at  it  for  a  minute,  looking  wonder- 
fully like  it  (they  do  say  he  ran  away  with  Mrs.  Walmers) ;  and 
then  he  gently  shakes  the  little  shoulder. 

"  Harry,  my  dear  boy  !  Harry  !  " 

Master  Harry  starts  up  and  looks  at  his  pa.  Looks  at  me  too. 
Such  is  the  honor  of  that  mite,  that  he  looks  at  me,  to  see  whether 
he  has  brought  me  into  trouble. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  my  child.  I  only  want  you  to  dress  yourself 
and  come  home." 

"  Yes,  pa." 

Master  Harry  dresses  himself  quick. 

"Please  may  I" — the  spirit  of  that  little  creatur,  —  "please, 
dear  pa,  —  may  I  —  kiss  Norah,  before  I  go  1 " 

"  You  may,  my  child." 

So  he  takes  Master  Harry  in  his  hand,  and  I  leads  the  way  with 
the  candle  to  that  other  bedroom,  where  the  elderly  lady  is  seated  by 
the  bed,  and  poor  little  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  is  fast  asleep. 
There  the  father  lifts  the  boy  up  to  the  pillow,  and  he  lays  his 
little  face  down  for  an  instant  by  the  little  warm  face  of  poor  little 
Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  and  gently  draws  it  to  him, — a  sight 
so  touching  to  the  chambermaids  who  are  a  peeping  through  the 
door,  that  one  of  them  calls  out,  "  It  's  a  shame  to  part  'em  !  " 
6"  I 


130 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


Finally,  Boots  says,  that  's  all  about  it.  Mr.  Walmers  drove 
away  in  the  chaise,  having  hold  of  Master  Harry's  hand.  The 
elderly  lady  and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Junior,  that  was  never  to 
be  (she  married  a  captain,  long  afterwards,  and  died  in  India), 
went  off  next  day.  In  conclusion,  Boots  puts  it  to  me  whether  I 
hold  with  him  in  two  opinions  :  firstly,  that  there  are  not  many 
couples  on  their  way  to  be  married  who  are  half  as  innocent  as 
them  two  children ;  secondly,  that  it  would  be  a  jolly  good  thing 
for  a  great  many  couples  on  their  way  to  be  married,  if  they  could 
only  be  stopped  in  time  and  brought  back  separate. 

C/tarles  Dickens. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  131 


AMEIE  AND  THE  GEESE. 

AMBLE  tended  the  geese  upon  the  Holder  Green,  as  they 
called  the  pasture-ground  upon  the  little  height  by  Hunger- 
brook. 

It  was  a  pleasant  but  a  troublesome  occupation.  Especially 
painful  was  it  to  Amrie,  that  she  could  do  nothing  to  attach  her 
charge  to  her.  Indeed,  they  were  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  one 
from  another.  Was  it  not  true  what  Brown  Mariann  had  said  to 
her  as  she  came  out  of  the  Moosbrunnenwood  1 

"  Creatures  that  live  in  herds  are  all  and  every  one  stupid." 

"I  think,"  said  Amrie,  "that  this  is  what  makes  geese  stupid; 
they  can  do  too  many  things.  They  can  swim  and  run  and  fly, 
but  they  can  do  neither  well ;  they  are  not  at  home  in  the  water, 
noT  on  the  ground,  nor  in  the  air ;  and  therefore  they  are 
stupid." 

"  I  will  stand  by  this,"  said  Mariann  ;  "  in  thee  is  concealed  an 
old  hermit." 

Amrie  was  often  borne  into  the  kingdom  of  dreams.  Freely 
rose  her  childish  soul  upward  and  cradled  itself  in  unlimited 
ether.  As  the  larks  in  the  air  sang  and  rejoiced  without  knowing 
the  limits  of  their  field,  so  would  she  soar  away  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  whole  country.  The  soul  of  the  child  knew 
nothing  of  the  limits  placed  upon  the  narrow  life  of  reality. 
Whoever  is  accustomed  to  wonder  will  find  a  miracle  in  every 
day. 

"  Listen  !  "  she  would  say  ;  "  the  cuckoo  calls  !  It  is  the  living 
echo  of  the  woods  calling  and  answering  itself.  The  bird  sits 
over  there  in  the  service-tree.  Look  up,  and  he  will  fly  away. 
How  loud  he  cries,  and  how  unceasingly  !  That  little  bird  has  a 
stronger  voice   than  a  man.      Place   thyself    upon   the  tree  and 


132 


CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 


imitate  him  ;  thou  wilt  not  he  heard  so  far  as  this  bird,  who  is 
no  larger  than  my  hand.  Listen  !  Perhaps  he  is  an  enchanted 
prince,  and  he  may  suddenly  begin  to  speak  to  thee.  "  Yes,"  she 
continued,  "  only  tell  me  thy  riddle,  and  I  will  soon  find  the 
meaning  of  it ;  and  then  will  I  disenchant  thee."' 

While  Amrie's  thoughts  were  wandering  beyond  all  bounds,  the 
geese  also  felt  themselves  at  liberty  to  stray  away  and  enjoy  the 
good  tilings  of  the  neighboring  clover  or  barley  field.  Awaking  out 
of  her  dreams,  she  had  great  trouble  in  bringing  the  geese  back  ; 
and  when  these  freebooters  returned  in  regiments,  they  had  much 
to  tell  of  the  goodly  land  where  they  had  fed  so  well.  There 
seemed  no  end  to  their  gossipping  and  chattering. 


Again  Amrie  soared.  "  Look  !  there  fly  the  birds  !  No  bird  in 
the  air  goes  astray.  Even  the  swallows,  as  they  pass  and  repass, 
are  always  safe,  always  free  !  0,  could  we  only  fly  !  How  must 
the  world  look  above,  where  the  larks  soar  !  Hurrah  !  Always 
higher  and  higher,  farther  and  farther  !     0,  if  I  could  but  fly  ! " 

Then  she  sang  herself  suddenly  away  from  all  the  noise  and 
from  all  her  thoughts.  Her  breath,  which  with  the  idea  of 
flying  had  grown  deeper  and  quicker,  as  though  she  really  hovered 
in  the  high  ether,  became  again  calm  and  measured. 

Of  the  thousand-fold  meanings  that  lived  in  Amrie's  soul,  Brown 
Mariann  received  only  at  times  an  intimation.  Once,  when  she 
came  from  the  forest  with  her  load  of  wood,  and  with  May-bugs 
and  worms  for  Amrie's  geese  imprisoned  in  her  sack,  the  latter 
said  to  her,  "  Aunt,  do  you  know  why  the  wind  blows  1 " 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  133 

"  No,  child.     Do  you  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  observed  that  everything  that  grows  must  move 
about.  The  bird  flies,  the  beetle  creeps ;  the  hare,  the  stag,  the 
horse,  and  all  animals  must  run.  The  fish  swim,  and  so  do  the 
frogs.  But  there  stand  the  trees,  the  corn,  and  the  grass ;  they 
cannot  go  forth,  and  yet  they  must  grow.  Then  comes  the  wind, 
and  says,  "  Only  stand  still,  and  I  will  do  for  you  what  others 
can  do  for  themselves.  See  how  I  turn,  and  shake,  and  bend 
you  !  Be  glad  that  I  come  !  I  do  thee  good,  even  if  I  make  thee 
weary." 

Brown  Mariann  only  made  her  usual  speech  in  reply,  "  I  main- 
tain it ;  in  thee  is  concealed  the  soul  of  an  old  hermit." 

The  quail  began  to  be  heard  in  the  high  rye-fields  ;  near  Amrie, 
the  field  larks  sang  the  whole  day  long.  They  wandered  here 
and  there  and  sang  so  tenderly,  so  into  the  deepest  heart,  it  seemed 
as  though  they  drew  their  inspiration  from  the  source  of  life,  — 
from  the  soul  itself.  The  tone  was  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
the  skylark,  which  soars  high  in  the  air.  Often  one  of  the  birds 
came  so  near  to  Amrie  that  she  said,  "  Why  cannot  I  tell  thee 
that  I  will  not  hurt  thee  1  Only  stay  !  "  But  the  bird  was  timid, 
and  flew  farther  off. 

At  noon,  when  Brown  Mariann  came  to  her,  she  said,  "  Could  I 
only  know  what  a  bird  finds  to  say,  singing  the  whole  day  long  ! 
Even  then  he  has  not  sung  it  all  out !  "  • 

Mariann  answered,  "  See  here  !  A  bird  keeps  nothing  to  him- 
self, to  ponder  over.  But  within  man  there  is  always  something 
speaking  on,  so  softly  !  There  are  thoughts  in  us  that  talk,  and 
weep,  and  sing  so  quietly  we  scarcely  hear  them  ourselves.  Not 
so  with  the  bird  ;  when  his  song  is  done,  he  only  wants  to  eat  or 
sleep." 

As  Mariann  turned  and  went  forth  with  her  bundle  of  sticks, 
Amrie  looked  after  her,  smiling.  "  There  goes  a  great  singing 
bird  !  "  she  thought  to  herself. 

None  but  the  sun  saw  how  long  the  child  continued  to  smile 
and  to  think.     Silently  she  sat  dreaming,   as  the  wind  moved 


134 


CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


the  shadows  of  the   branches   around   her.     Then  she  gazed  at 
the   clouds,   motionless   on   the   horizon,   or  chasing   each   other 
through  the  sk}\     As  in  the  wide  space  without,  so  in  the  soul 
of  the  cliild,  the  cloud-pictures  arose  and  melted  away. 
Thus,  day  after  day,  Amrie  lived. 

"  The  Little  Barefoot" 


ii:^ 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE. 


135 


THING  remarkable  in  my  childhood  was,  that 

once  going  to  a  neighbor's  house,  I  saw  on  the 

way  a  robin  sitting  on  her  nest,  and  as  I  went  near 

her  she  went  off,  but,  having  young  ones,  flew  about. 

and  with  many  cries  told  her  concern  for  them. 

I  stood  and  threw  stones  at  her,  until,  one  striking  her, 
she  fell  down  dead.  At  first  I  was  pleased  with  the  exploit,  but 
after  a  few  minutes  was  seized  with  horror  for  having  in  a  sportive 
way  killed  an  innocent  creature  while  she  was  careful  of  her  young. 
I  beheld  her  lying  dead,  and  thought  that  these  young  ones,  for 
which  she  was  so  heedful,  must  now  perish  for  want  of  their  parent 
to  nourish  them  ;  and  after  some  painful  considerations  on  the  sub- 
ject, I  climbed  up  the  tree,  took  all  the  young  birds  and  killed 
them,  supposing  that  to  be  better  than  to  leave  them  to  pine 
away  and  die  miserably.  I  believed  in  this  case  that  the  Scrip- 
ture proverb  was  fulfilled  :  "  The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are 
cruel." 

I  then  went  on  my  errand,  but  for  some  hours  could  think  of 
little  else  than  the  cruelties  I  had  committed,  and  was  troubled. 


136 


CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 


lie  whose  tender  mercies  are  over  all  his  works  hath  placed  a 
principle  in  the  human  mind  which  incites  to  goodness  towards 
every  living  creature  ;  and  this  being  singly  attended  to,  we  be- 
come tender-hearted  and  sympathizing ;  but  being  frequently  re- 
jected, the  mind  becomes  shut  up  in  a  contrary  disposition. 

I  often  remember  the  Fountain  of  Goodness  which  gives  being 
to  all  creatures,  and  whose  love  extends  to  the  caring  for  the 
sparrow  ;  and  I  believe  that  where  the  love  of  God  is  verily  per- 
fected, a  tenderness  toward  all  creatures  made  subject  to  us  will  be 
felt,  and  a  care  that  we  do  not  lessen  that  sweetness  of  life  in  the 
animal  creation  which  their  Creator  intended  for  them. 

Joint  Woolman. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  137 


THE  FISH   T   DID  WT   CATCH. 

OUR  old  homestead  (the  house  was  very  old  for  a  new  coun- 
try, having  been  built  about  the  time  that  the  Prince  of 
Orange  drove  out  James  the  Second)  nestled  under  a  long  range 
of  hills  which  stretched  off  to  the  west.  It  was  surrounded  by 
woods  in  all  directions  save  to  the  southeast,  where  a  break  in  the 
leafy  wall  revealed  a  vista  of  low  green  meadows,  picturesque  with 
wooded  islands  and  jutting  capes  of  upland.  Through  these,  a 
small  brook,  noisy  enough  as  it  foamed,  rippled,  and  laughed  down 
its  rocky  falls  by  our  garden-side,  wound,  silently  and  scarcely 
visible,  to  a  still  larger  stream,  known  as  the  Country  Brook. 
This  brook  in  its  turn,  after  doing  duty  at  two  or  three  saw  and 
grist  mills,  the  clack  of  which  we  could  hear  in  still  days  across 
the  intervening  woodlands,  found  its  way  to  the  great  river,  and 
the  river  took  it  up  and  bore  it  down  to  the  great  sea. 

I  have  not  much  reason  for  speaking  well  of  these  meadows,  or 
rather  bogs,  for  they  were  wet  most  of  the  year ;  but  in  the  early 
days  they  were  highly  prized  by  the  settlers,  as  they  furnished 
natural  mowing  before  the  uplands  could  be  cleared  of  wood  and 
stones  and  laid  down  to  grass.  There  is  a  tradition  that  the  hay- 
harvesters  of  two  adjoining  towns  quarrelled  about  a  boundary 
question,  and  fought  a  hard  battle  one  summer  morning  in  that 
old  time,  not  altogether  bloodless,  but  by  no  means  as  fatal  as  the 
fight  between  the  rival  Highland  clans,  described  by  Scott  in 
"  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth."  I  used  to  wonder  at  their  folly,  when 
I  was  stumbling  over  the  rough  hassocks,  and  sinking  knee-deep  in 
the  black  mire,  raking  the  sharp  sickle-edged  grass  which  we  used 
to  feed  out  to  the  young  cattle  in  midwinter  when  the  bitter  cold 
gave  them  appetite  for  even  such  fodder.  I  had  an  almost  Irish 
hatred  of  snakes,  and  these  meadows  were  full  of  them,  —  striped, 


138  CHILI)   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

green,  dingy  water-snakes,  anil  now  and  then  an  ugly  spotted 
adder  by  no  means  pleasant  to  touch  with  hare  feet.  There  were 
great  black  snakes,  too,  in  the  ledges  of  the  neighboring  knolls ; 
and  on  one  occasion  in  early  spring  I  found  myself  in  the  midst 
of  a  score  at  least  of  them,  —  holding  their  wicked  meeting  of  a 
Sabbath  morning  on  the  margin  of  a  deep  spring  in  the  mead- 
ows. One  glimpse  at  their  fierce  shining  heads  in  the  sunshine, 
as  they  roused  themselves  at  my  approach,  was  sufficient  to  send 
me  at  full  speed  towards  the  nearest  upland.  The  snakes,  equal- 
ly scared,  fled  in  the  same  direction  ;  and,  looking  back,  I  saw 
the  dark  monsters  following  close  at  my  heels,  terrible  as  the 
Black  Horse  rebel  regiment  at  Bull  Run.  I  had,  happily,  sense 
enough  left  to  step  aside  and  let  the  ugly  troop  glide  into  the 
bushes. 

Xevertheless,  the  meadows  had  their  redeeming  points.  In 
spring  mornings  the  blackbirds  and  bobolinks  made  them  musical 
with  songs  ;  and  in  the  evenings  great  bullfrogs  croaked  and  clam- 
ored ;  and  on  summer  nights  we  loved  to  watch  the  white 
wreaths  of  fog  rising  and  drifting  in  the  moonlight  like  troops  of 
ghosts,  with  the  fireflies  throwing  up  ever  and  anon  signals  of 
their  coming.  But  the  Brook  was  far  more  attractive,  fur  it  had 
sheltered  bathing-places,  clear  and  white  sanded,  and  weedy 
stretches,  where  the  shy  pickerel  loved  to  linger,  and  deep  pools, 
where  the  stupid  sucker  stirred  the  black  mud  with  his  fins.  I 
had  followed  it  all  the  way  from  its  birthplace  among  the  pleasant 
Xew  Hampshire  hills,  through  the  sunshine  of  broad,  open  mead- 
ows, and  under  the  shadow  of  thick  woods.  It  was,  for  the  most 
part,  a  sober,  quiet  little  river  ;  but  at  intervals  it  broke  into  a  low, 
rippling  laugh  over  rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  There  had, 
so  tradition  said,  once  been  a  witch-meeting  on  its  banks,  of  six 
little  old  women  in  short,  sky-blue  cloaks ;  and  if  a  drunken 
teamster  could  be  credited,  a  ghost  was  once  seen  bobbing  for  eels 
under  Country  Bridge.  It  ground  our  corn  and  rye  for  us,  at  its 
two  grist-mills ;  and  we  drove  our  sheep  to  it  for  their  spring 
washing,  an  anniversary  which  was  looked  forward  to  with  intense 


STORIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  139 

delight,  for  it  was  always  rare  fun  for  the  youngsters.  Macaulay 
has  sung,  — 

"  That  year  young  lads  in  Umbro 
Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  "  ; 

and  his  picture  of  the  Eoman  sheep-washing  recalled,  when  we 
read  it,  similar  scenes  in  the  Country  Brook.  On  its  banks  we 
could  always  find  the  earliest  and  the  latest  wild  flowers,  from  the 
pale  blue,  three-lobed  hepatica,  and  small,  delicate  wood-anemone, 
to  the  yellow  bloom  of  the  witch-hazel  burning  in  the  leafless  Oc- 
tober woods. 

Yet,  after  all,  I  think  the  chief  attraction  of  the  Brook  to  my 
brother  and  myself  was  the  fine  fishing  it  afforded  us.  Our  bach- 
elor uncle  who  lived  with  us  (there  has  always  been  one  of  that 
unfortunate  class  in  every  generation  of  our  family)  was  a  quiet, 
genial  man,  much  given  to  hunting  and  fishing ;  and  it  was  one 
of  the  great  pleasures  of  our  young  life  to  accompany  him  on  his 
expeditions  to  Great  Hill,  Brandy-brow  Woods,  the  Pond,  and, 
best  of  all,  to  the  Country  Brook.  We  were  cpiite  willing  to  work 
hard  in  the  cornfield  or  the  haying-lot  to  finish  the  necessary  day's 
labor  in  season  for  an  afternoon  stroll'  through  the  woods  and 
along  the  brookside.  I  remember  my  first  fishing  excursion  as  if 
it  were  but  yesterday.  I  have  been  happy  many  times  in  my  life, 
but  never  more  intensely  so  than  when  I  received  that  first  fishing- 
pole  from  my  uncle's  hand,  and  trudged  off  with  him  through  the 
woods  and  meadows.  It  was  a  still  sweet  day  of  early  summer ; 
the  long  afternoon  shadows  of  the  trees  lay  cool  across  our  path  ; 
the  leaves  seemed  greener,  the  flowers  brighter,  the  birds  merrier, 
than  ever  before.  My  uncle,  who  knew  by  long  experience  where 
were  the  best  haunts  of  pickerel,  considerately  placed  me  at  the 
most  favorable  point.  I  threw  out  my  line  as  I  had  so  often  seen 
others,  and  waited  anxiously  for  a  bite,  moving  the  bait  in  rapid 
jerks  on  the  surface  of  the  water  in  imitation  of  the  leap  of  a 
frog.  Nothing  came  of  it.  "  Try  again,"  said  my  uncle.  Sud- 
denly the  bait  sank  out  of  sight.  "  Now  for  it,"  thought  I ;  "  here 
is  a  fish  at  last."     I  made  a  strong  pull,  and  brought  up  a  tangle 


140 


CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


of  weeds.  Again  and  again  I  cast  out  my  line  with  aching  arms, 
and  drew  it  back  empty.  I  looked  to  my  uncle  appealingly. 
"  Try  once  more,"  he  said  ;  "  we  fishermen  must  have  patience." 

Suddenly  something  tugged  at  my  line  and  swept  off  with  it 
into  deep  water.  Jerking  it  up,  I  saw  a  fine  pickerel  wriggling  in 
the  sun.  "  Uncle ! "  I  cried,  looking  back  in  uncontrollable 
excitement,  "I've got  a  fish!" 
"  Not  yet,"  said  my  uncle.  As 
he  spoke  there  was  a  plash  in 
the  water;  I  caught  the  arrowy 
gleam  of  a  scared  fish  shooting 
into  the  middle  of  the  stream  ; 
my  hook  hung  empty  from  the 
line.      I  had  lost  my  prize. 


)y- 


I,  if-    fcf\ 

Br 


te^i  yam  - 


^-W*I*3P^ 


We  are  apt  to  speak  of  the  sorrows  of  childhood  as  trifles  in 
comparison  with  those  of  grown-up  people ;  but  we  may  depend 
upon  it  the  young  folks  don't  agree  with  us.  Our  griefs,  modified 
and  restrained  by  reason,  experience,  and  self-respect,  keep  the 
proprieties,  and,  if  possible,  avoid  a  scene  ;  but  the  sorrow  of  child- 
hood, unreasoning  and  all-absorbing,  is  a  complete  abandonment 
to  the  passion.     The  doll's  nose  is  broken,  and  the  world  breaks 


STOKIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  141 

up  with  it \  the  marble  rolls  out  of  sight,  and  the  solid  globe  rolls 
off  with  the  marble. 

So,  overcome  by  my  great  and  bitter  disappointment,  I  sat 
down  on  the  nearest  hassock,  and  for  a  time  refused  to  be  com- 
forted, even  by  my  uncle's  assurance  that  there  were  more  fish  in 
the  brook.  He  refitted  my  bait,  and,  putting  the  pole  again  in  my 
hands,  told  me  to  try  my  luck  once  more. 

"  But  remember,  boy,"  he  said,  with  his  shrewd  smile, 
"  never  brag  of  catching  a  fish  until  he  is  on  dry  ground.  I  've 
seen  older  folks  doing  that  in  more  ways  than  one,  and  so  making 
fools  of  themselves.  It  's  no  use  to  boast  of  anything  until  it  's 
done,  nor  then  either,  for  it  speaks  for  itself." 

How  often  since  I  have  been  reminded  of  the  fish  that  I  did  not 
catch  !  When  I  hear  people  boasting  of  a  work  as  yet  undone, 
and  trying  to  anticipate  the  credit  which  belongs  only  to  actual 
achievement,  I  call  to  mind  that  scene  by  the  brookside,  and  the 
wise  caution  of  my  uncle  in  that  particular  instance  takes  the  form 
of   a  proverb   of  universal  application  :   "  Kever  brag  of  your 

FISH    BEFORE   YOU    CATCH    HIM." 

John,  G.  Whittier. 


X42  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


LITTLE  KATE  WORDSWORTH. 

WHEN  I  first  settled  in  Grasmere,  Catherine  "Wordsworth 
was  in  her  infancy,  but  even  at  that  age  she  noticed  me 
more  than  any  other  person,  excepting,  of  course,  her  mother. 
She  was  not  above  three  years  old  when  she  died,  so  that  there 
could  not  have  been  much  room  for  the  expansion  of  her  under- 
standing, or  the  unfolding  of  her  real  character.  But  there  was 
room  in  her  short  life,  and  too  much,  for  love  the  most  intense  to 
settle  upon  her. 

The  whole  of  Grasmere  is  not  large  enough  to  allow  of  any 
great  distance  between  house  and  house  ;  and  as  it  happened  that 
little  Kate  Wordsworth  returned  my  love,  she  in  a  manner  lived 
with  me  at  my  solitary  cottage.  As  often  as  I  could  entice  her 
from  home,  she  walked  with  me,  slept  with  me,  and  was  my  sole 
companion. 

That  I  was  not  singular  in  ascribing  some  witchery  to  the  na- 
ture, and  manners  of  this  innocent  child  may  be  gathered  from 
the  following  beautiful  lines  by  her  father.  They  are  from  the 
poem  entitled  "  Characteristics  of  a  Child  Three  Years  Old,"  dated, 
at  the  foot,  1811,  which  must  be  an  oversight,  as  she  was  not  so 
old  until  the  following  year. 

"Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  vrfld  ; 
And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes, 
And  feats  of  cunning,  and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock  chastisement,  and  partnership  in  play. 
And  as  a  fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth 
Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone 
Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  round, 
And  take  delight  in  its  activity,  — 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  143 

Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Was  all-sufficient.     Solitude  to  her 
Was  blithe  society,  who  filled  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs." 

It  was  this  radiant  spirit  of  joyousness,  making  solitude,  for 
her,  blithe  society,  and  filling  from  morning  to  night  the  air  with 
gladness  and  involuntary  songs,  —  this  it  was  which  so  fascinated 
my  heart  that  I  became  blindly  devoted  to  this  one  affection. 

In  the  spring  of  1812  I  went  up  to  London;  and  early  in 
June  I  learned  by  a  letter  from  Miss  Wordsworth,  her  aunt,  that 
she  had  died  suddenly.  She  had  gone  to  bed  in  good  health  about 
sunset  on  June  4,  was  found  speechless  a  little  before  midnight, 
and  died  in  the  early  dawn,  just  as  the  first  gleams  of  morning 
began  to  appear  above  Seat  Sandel  and  Fairfield,  the  mightiest  of 
the  Grasmere  barriers,  —  about  an  hour,  perhaps,  before  sunrise. 

Over  and  above  my  love  for  her,  I  had  always  viewed  her  as  an 
impersonation  of  the  dawn,  and  of  the  spirit  of  infancy  ;  and  this, 
with  the  connection  which,  even  in  her  parting  hours,  she  as- 
sumed with  the  summer  sun,  timing  her  death  with  the  rising  of 
that  fountain  of  life,  ■ —  these  impressions  recoiled  into  such  a  con- 
trast to  the  image  of  death,  that  each  exalted  and  brightened  the 
other. 

I  returned  hastily  to  Grasmere,  stretched  myself  every  night  on 
her  grave,  in  fact  often  passed  the  whole  night  there,  in  mere  in- 
tensity of  sick  yearning  after  neighborhood  with  the  darling  of  my 
heart. 

In  Sir  Walter  Scott's  "  Demonology,"  and  in  Dr.  Abercrom- 
bie's  "  Inquiries  concerning  the  Intellectual  Powers,"  there  are 
some  remarkable  illustrations  of  the  creative  faculties  awakened  in 
the  eye  or  other  organs  by  peculiar  states  of  passion ;  and  it  is 
worthy  of  a  place  among  cases  of  that  nature,  that  in  many  solitary 
fields,  at  a  considerable  elevation  above  the  level  of  the  valleys,  — 
fields  which,  in  the  local  dialect,  are  called  "  intacks,"  —  my  eye 
was  haunted,  at  times,  in  broad  noonday  (oftener,  however,  in  the 
afternoon),  with  a  facility,  but  at  times  also  with  a  necessity,  for 


144  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

weaving,  out  of  a  few  simple  elements,  a  perfect  picture   of  little 
Kate  in  her  attitude  and  onward  motion  of  walking. 

I  resorted  constantly  to  these  "  intacks,"  as  places  where  I  was 
little  liable  to  disturbance  ;  and  usually  I  saw  her  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  field,  which  sometimes  might  be  at  the  distance  of  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  generally  not  so  much.  Almost  always  she  car- 
ried a  basket  on  her  head  ;  and  usually  the  first  hint  upon  which 
the  figure  arose  commenced  in  wild  plants,  such  as  tall  ferns,  or 
the  purple  flowers  of  the  foxglove.  But  whatever  these  might  be, 
uniformly  the  same  little  full-formed  figure  arose,  uniformly  dressed 
in  the  little  blue  bed-gown  and  black  skirt  of  Westmoreland,  and 
uniformly  with  the  air  of  advancing  motion. 

Thomas  De  Quincey. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


145 


HOW  MARGERY  WONDERED. 


ONE  brig! 
little  Ma 


?ht  morning,  late  in  March, 
[argery  put  on  her  hood  and 
her  Highland  plaid  shawl,  and  went  trudg- 
ing across  the  beach.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  been  trusted  out  alone,  for 
Margery  was  a  little  girl  ;  nothing  about 
her  was  large,  except  her  round  gray  eyes, 
which  had  yet  scarcely  opened  upon  half  a  dozen  springs  and 
summers. 

There  was  a  pale  mist  on  the  far-off  sea  and  sky,  and  up  around 
the  sun  were  white  clouds  edged  with  the  hues  of  pinks  and  vio- 
lets. The  sunshine  and  the  mild  air  made  Margery's  very  heart 
feel  warm,  and  she  let  the  soft  wind  blow  aside  her  Highland 
shawl,  as  she  looked  across  the  waters  at  the  sun,  and  wondered  ! 

For,  somehow,  the  sun  had  never  looked  before  as  it  did  to-day  ; 
—  it  seemed  like  a  great  golden  flower  bursting  out  of  its  pearl- 
lined  calyx,  —  a  flower  without  a  stem  !  Or  was  there  a  strong 
stem  away  behind  it  in  the  sky,  that  reached  down  below  the  sea, 
to  a  root,  nobody  could  guess  where  1 

Margery  did  not  stop  to  puzzle  herself  about  the  answer  to  her 
7  j 


146  CHILD   LIFE  IK  PROSE. 

question,  for  now  the  tide  was  coming  in,  and  the  waves,  little  at 
first,  but  growing  larger  every  moment,  were  crowding  up,  along 
the  sand  and  pebbles,  laughing,  winking,  and  whispering,  as  they 
tumbled  over  each  other,  like  thousands  (if  children  hurrying  home 
from  somewhere,  each  with  its  own  precious  little  secret  to  tell. 
Where  did  the  waves  come  from  I  Who  was  down  there  under 
the  blue  wall  of  the  horizon,  with  the  hoarse,  hollow  voice,  urging 
and  pushing  them  across  the  beach  to  her  feet  'I  And  what  secret 
was  it  they  were  lisping  to  each  other  with  their  pleasant  voices] 
0,  what  was  there  beneath  the  sea,  and  beyond  the  sea,  so  deep,  so 
broad,  and  so  dim  too,  away  off  where  the  white  ships,  that  looked 
smaller  than  sea-birds,  were  gliding  out  and  in  1 

But  while.  Margery  stood  still  for  a  moment  on  a  dry  rock  and 
wondered,  there  came  a  low,  rippling  warble  to  her  ear  from  a 
cedar-tree  on  the  cliff  above  her.  It  had  been  a  long  winter,  and 
Margery  had  forgotten  that  there  were  birds,  and  that  birds  could 
sing.  So  she  wondered  again  what  the  music  was.  And  when 
she  saw  the  bird  perched  on  a  yellow-brown  bough,  she  wondered 
yet  more.  It  was  only  a  bluebird,  but  then  it  was  the  first  blue- 
bird Margery  had  ever  seen.  He  fluttered  among  the  prickly 
twigs,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  grown  out  oi  them,  as  the  cedar- 
berries  had,  which  were  dusty-blue,  the  color  of  his  coat.  But 
how  did  the  music  get  into  his  throat  1  And  after  it  was  in  his 
throat,  how  could  it  untangle  itself,  and  wind  itself  off  so  evenly  ] 
And  where  had  the  bluebird  flown  from,  across  the  snow-banks, 
down  to  the  shore  of  the  blue  sea  ?  The  waves  sang  a  welcome  to 
him,  and  he  sang  a  welcome  to  the  waves  ;  they  seemed  to  know 
each  other  well ;  and  the  ripple  and  the  warble  sounded  so  much  ■ 
alike,  the  bird  and  the  wave  must  both  have  learned  their  music 
of  the  same  teacher.  And  Margery  kept  on  wondering  as  she 
stepped  between  the  song  of  the  bluebird  and  the  echo  of  the  sea, 
and  climbed  a  sloping  bank,  just  turning  faintly  green  in  the 
spring  sunshine. 

The  grass  was  surely  beginning  to  grow  !     There  were  fresh, 
juicy  shoots  running  up  among  the  withered  blades  of  last  year, 


STORIES   OF  GUILD  LIFE.  147 

as  if  in  hopes  of  bringing  them  back  to  life  ;  and  closer  down  she 
saw  the  sharp  points  of  new  spears  peeping  from  their  sheaths. 
And  scattered  here  and  there  were  small  dark  green  leaves  folded 
around  buds  shut  up  so  tight  that  only  those  who  had  watched 
them  many  seasons  could  tell  what  flowers  were  to  be  let  out  of 
their  safe  prisons  by  and  by.  So  no  one  could  blame  Margery  for 
not  knowing  that  they  were  only  common  things,  —  mouse-ear,  dan- 
delions, and  cinquefoil ;  nor  for  stooping  over  the  tiny  buds,  and 
wondering. 

What  made  the  grass  come  up  so  green  out  of  the  black  earth  1 
And  how  did  the  buds  know  when  it  was  time  to  take  off  their 
little  green  hoods,  and  see  what  there  was  in  the  world  around 
them  1  And  how  came  they  to  be  buds  at  all  1  Did  they  bloom 
in  another  world  before  they  sprung  up  here  1  —  and  did  they 
know,  themselves,  what  kind  of  flowers  they  should  blossom  into  1 
Had  flowers  souls,  like  little  girls,  that  would  live  in  another  world 
when  their  forms  had  faded  away  from  this  1 

Margery  thought  she  should  like  to  sit  down  on  the  bank  and 
wait  beside  the  buds  until  they  opened ;  perhaps  they  woidd  tell 
her  their  secret  if  the  very  first  thing  they  saw  was  her  eyes  watch- 
ing them.  One  bud  was  beginning  to  unfold  ;  it  was  streaked 
with  yellow  in  little  stripes  that  she  could  imagine  became  wider 
every  minute.  But  she  would  not  touch  it,  for  it  seemed  almost  as 
much  alive  as  herself.      She  only  wondered,  and  wondered  ! 

But  the  dash  of  the  waves  grew  louder,  and  the  bluebird  had 
not  stopped  singing  yet,  and  the  sweet  sounds  drew  Margery's  feet 
down  to  the  beach  again,  where  she  played  with  the  shining 
pebbles,  and  sifted  the  sand  through  her  plump  fingers,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  wonder  a  little  about  everything,  until  she  heard 
her  mother's  voice  calling  her,  from  the  cottage  on  the  cliff. 

Then  Margery  trudged  home  across  the  shells  and  pebbles  with 
a  pleasant  smile  dimpling  her  cheeks,  for  she  felt  very  much  at 
home  in  this  large,  wonderful  world,  and  was  happy  to  be  alive, 
although  she  neither  could  have  told,  nor  cared  to  know,  the 
reason  why.     But  when  her  mother  unpinned  the  little  girl's  High- 


148 


CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 


land  .shawl,  and  took  oil'  her  hood,  she  said,  "  0  mother,  do  let  me 
live  on  the  door-step  !  I  don't  like  houses  to  stay  in.  What  makes 
everything  so  pretty  and  so  glad  1       Don't  you  like  to  wonder  1  " 

Margery's  mother  was  a  good  woman.  But  then  there  was  all 
the  housework  to  do,  and  if  she  had  thoughts,  she  did  not  often  let 
them  wander  outside  the  kitchen  door.  And  just  now  she  was 
baking  some  gingerbread,  which  was  in  danger  of  getting  burned  in 
the  oven.  So  she  pinned  the  shawl  around  the  cliild's  neck  again, 
and  left  her  on  the  door-step,  saying  to  herself,  as  she  returned  to 
her  work,  "  Queer  child  !  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  woman  she 
will  be  !  " 

But  Margery  sat  on  the  door-step,  and  wondered,  "as  the  sea 
sounded  louder,  and  the  sunshine  grew  warmer  around  her.  It 
was  all  so  strange,  and  grand,  and  beautiful  !  Her  heart  danced 
with  joy  to  the  music  that  went  echoing  through  the  wide  world 
from  the  roots  of  the  sprouting  grass  to  the  great  golden  blossom 
of  the  sun. 

And  when  the  round,  graj'  eyes  closed  that  night,  at  the  first 
peep  of  the  stars,  the  angels  looked  down  and  wondered  over  Mar- 
gery. For  the  wisdom  of  the  wisest  being  God  has  made  ends  in 
wonder  ;  and  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  wonderful  as  the  budding 
soul  of  a  little  child. 

Lao/  Lurcom. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  149 


THE   NETTLE-GATHERER. 

VERY  early  in  the  spring,  when  the  fresh  grass  was  just  ap- 
pearing, hefore  the  trees  had  got  their  foliage,  or  the  beds 
of  white  campanula  and  blue  anemone  were  open,  a  poor  little  girl 
with  a  basket  on  her  arm  went  out  to  search  for  nettles. 

Near  the  stone  wall  of  the  churchyard  was  a  bright  green  spot, 
where  grew  a  large  bunch  of  nettles.  The  largest  stung  little 
Karine's  fingers.  "Thank  you  for  nothing!"  said  she;  "but, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you  must  all  be  put  into  my  basket." 

Little  Karine  blew  on  her  smarting  finger,  and  the  wind  followed 
suit.  The  sun  shone  out  warm,  and  the  larks  began  to  sing.  As 
Karine  was  standing  there  listening  to  the  song  of  the  birds,  and 
warming  herself  in  the  sun,  she  perceived  a  beautiful  butterfly. 

"  0,  the  first  I  have  seen  this  year  !  "What  sort  of  summer 
shall  I  have  %  Let  me  see  your  colors.  Black  and  bright  red. 
Sorrow  and  joy  in  turn.  It  is  very  likely  I  may  go  supperless  to 
bed,  but  tb  en  there  is  the  pleasure  of  gathering  flowers,  making 
hay,  and  playing  tricks."  Remembrance  and  expectation  made 
her  laugh. 

The  butterfly  stretched  out  its  dazzling  wings,  and,  after  it  had 
settled  on  a  nettle,  waved  itself  backwards  and  forwards  in  the 
sunshine.  There  was  also  something  else  upon  the  nettle,  which 
looked  like  a  shrivelled-up  light  brown  leaf.  The  sun  was  just 
then  shining  down  with  great  force  upon  the  spot,  and  while  she 
looked  the  brown  object  moved,  and  two  little  leaves  rose  gently 
up  which  by  and  by  became  two  beautiful  little  wings  ;  and  behold, 
it  was  a  butterfly  just  come  out  of  the  chrysalis  !  Fresh  life  was 
infused  into  it  by  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun,  and  how  happy 
it  was  ! 

The  two  butterflies  must  have  been  friends  whom  some  unlucky 


150 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


chance  had  separated.  They  flew  about,  played  at  hide-and-seek, 
waltzed  with  each  other,  and  seemed  to  be  thoroughly  enjoying 
themselves  in  the  bright  sunshine.  One  flew  away  three  times 
into  a  neighboring  orchard.  The  other  seated  itself  on  a  nettle  to 
rest.  Karine  went  gently  towards  it,  put  her  hands  quickly  over 
it,  and  got  possession  both  of  the  butterfly  and  the  nettle.  She 
then  put  them  into  the  basket,  which  she  covered  with  a  red  cot- 
ton handkerchief,  and  went  home  happy. 


HI 


«';.!: 


V  I 


The  nettles  were  bought  by  an  old  countess,  who  lived  in  a 
grand  apartment,  and  had  a  weakness  for  nettle  soup.  Karine  re- 
ceived a  silver  piece  for  them.  "With  this  in  her  hand,  the  butter- 
fly in  her  basket,  and  also  two  large  gingercakes  which  had  been 
given  to  her  by  the  kind  countess,  the  happy  girl  went  into  the 
room  where  her  mother  and  little  brother  awaited  her.  There 
were  great  rejoicings  over  the  piece  of  silver,  the  gingercakes,  and 
the  butterfly. 

But  the  butterfly  did  not  appear  as  happy  with  the  children  as 
the  children  were  with  the  butterfly.  It  would  not  eat  any  of  the 
gingerbread,  or  anything  else  which  the  children  offered,  but  was 
always  fluttering  against  the  window-pane,  and  when  it  rested  on 
the  ledge  it  put  out  a  long  proboscis,  drew  it  in  again,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  sucking  something  ;  however,  it  found  nothing  to  suit 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  151 

its  taste,  so  it  flew  about  again,  and  beat  its  wings  with  such  force 
against  the  window-pane,  that  Karine  began  to  fear  it  would  come 
to  grief.  Two  days  passed  in  tills  way.  The  butterfly  would  not 
be  happy. 

"  It  wants  to  get  out,"  thought  Karine  ;  "  it  wants  to  find  a 
home  and  something  to  eat."     So  she  opened  the  window. 

Ah,  how  joyfully  the  butterfly  flew  out  into  the  open  air !  il 
seemed  to  be  quite  happy.  Karine  ran  after  it  to  see  which  way 
it  took.  It  flew  over  the  churchyard,  which  was  near  Karine's 
dwelling.  There  little  yellow  star-like  flowers  of  every  description 
were  in  bud  ;  among  them  the  spring  campanula,  otherwise  called 
the  morning-star.  Into  the  calyxes  of  these  little  flowers  it  thrust 
its  proboscis,  and  sucked  a  sweet  juice  therefrom  ;  for  at  the  bottom 
of  the  calyx  of  almost  every  flower  there  is  a  drop  of  sweet  juice 
which  God  has  provided  for  the  nourishment  of  insects,  —  bees, 
drones,  butterflies,  and  many  other  little  creatures. 

The  butterfly  then  flew  to  the  bunch  of  nettles  on  the  bill. 
The  large  nettle  which  had  stung  Karine's  finger  now  bore  three 
white  bell-shaped  flowers,  which  looked  like  o.  crown  on  the  top 
of  the  stalk,  and  many  others  were  nearly  out.  The  butterfly 
drew  honey  from  the  white  nettle-blossoms  and  embraced  the 
plant  with  its  wings,  as  children  do  a  tender  mother. 

"  It  has  now  returned  to  its  home,"  thought  Karine,  and  she 
felt  very  glad  to  have  given  the  butterfly  it3  liberty. 

Summer  came.  The  child  enjoyed  herself  under  the  lime-trees 
in  the  churchyard,  and  in  the  meadows  where  she  got  the  beauti- 
ful yellow  catkins,  which  were  as  soft  as  the  down  of  the  goslings, 
and  which  she  was  so  fond  of  playing  with,  also  the  young  twigs 
which  she  liked  cutting  into  pipes  or  whistles.  Fir-trees  and 
pines  blossomed  and  bore  fir-cones  ;  the  sheep  and  calves  were 
growing,  and  drank  the  dew,  which  is  called  the  "  Blessed  Virgin's 
hand,"  out  of  the  trumpet  moss,  which  with  its  small  white  and 
purple  cup  grew  on  the  steep  shady  banks. 

Karine  now  gathered  flowers  to  sell.  The  nettles  had  long  ago 
become  too  old  and  rank,  but  the  nettle  butterflies  still  flew  nier- 
rilv  about,  among  them. 


152  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

One  day  Karine  saw  her  old  friend  sit  on  a  leaf,  as  if  tired  and 
worn  out,  and  when  it  flew  away  the  child  found  a  little  gray  egg 
lying  on  the  very  spot  where  it  had  rested,  whereupon  she  made  a 
mark  on  the  nettle  and  the  leaf. 

She  forgot  the  nettles  for  a  long  time,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
butterfly  had  also  forgotten  them,  for  it  was  there  no  more. 
Larger  and  more  beautiful  butterflies  were  flying  about  there, 
higher  up  in  the  air.  There  was  the  magnificent  Apollo-bird,  with 
large  white  wings  and  scarlet  eyes  ;  also  the  Antiopa,  with  its  beau- 
tiful blue  and  white  velvet  band  on  the  edge  of  its  dark  velvet 
dress  ;  and  farther  on  the  dear  little  blue  glittering  Zefprinner,  and 
many  others. 

Karine  gathered  flowers,  and  then  went  into  the  hay-field  to 
work  ;  still,  it  often  happened  that  she  and  her  little  brother  went 
supperless  to  bed.  But  then  their  father  played  on  the  violin,  and 
made  them  forget  that  they  were  hungry,  and  its  tones  lulled  them 
to  sleep. 

One  day,  when  Karine  was  passing  by  the  nettles,  she  stopped, 
rejoiced  to  see  them  again.  She  saw  that  the  nettles  were  a  little 
bent  down,  and,  upon  examination,  found  a  number  of  small  green 
caterpillars,  resembling  those  which  we  call  cabbage-grubs,  and 
they  seemed  to  enjoy  eating  the  nettle  leaves  as  much  as  the  old 
countess  did  her  nettle  soup.  She  saw  that  they  covered  the 
exact  spot  where  she  had  made  a  mark,  and  that  the  leaf  was 
nearly  eaten  up  by  the  caterpillars,  and  Karine  immediately 
thought  that  they  must  be  the  butterfly's  children.  And  so  they 
were,  for  they  had  come  from  its  eggs. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  Karine,  "  if  my  little  brother  and  I,  who  some- 
times can  eat  more  than  our  father  and  mother  can  give  us,  cotild 
become  butterflies,  and  find  something  to  eat  as  easily  as  these  do, 
would  it  not  be  pleasant  1 "  She  broke  off  the  nettle  on  which  the 
butterfly  had  laid  its  eggs,  —  but  this  time  she  carefully  wound  hei 
handkerchief  round  her  hand,  —  and  carried  it  home. 

On  her  arrival  there,  she  found  all  the  little  grubs  had  crawled 
away,  with  the  exception  of  one,  which  was  still  eating  and  enjoy- 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  153 

ing  itself.  Karine  put  the  nettle  into  a  glass  of  water,  and  every 
day  a  fresh  leaf  appeared.  The  caterpillar  quickly  increased  in  size, 
and  seemed  to  thrive  wonderfully  well.  The  child  took  great 
pleasure  in  it,  and  wondered  within  herself  how  large  it  would  be 
at  last,  and  when  its  wings  would  come. 

But  one  morning  it  appeared  very  quiet  and  sleepy,  and  would 
not  eat,  and  became  every  moment  more  weary,  and  seemed  ill. 
"  0,"  said  Karine,  "  it  is  certainly  going  to  die,  and  there  will 
be  no  butterfly  from  it  ;  what  a  pity  !  " 

It  was  evening,  and  the  next  morning  Karine  found  with  as- 
tonishment that  the  caterpillar  had  spun  round  itself  a  sort  of  web, 
in  which  it  lay,  no  longer  a  living  green  grub,  but  a  stiff  brown 
chrysalis.  She  took  it  out  of  the  cocoon  ;  it  was  as  if  enclosed  in 
a  shell.  "  It  is  dead,"  said  the  child,  "  and  is  now  lying  in  its 
coffin  !  But  I  will  still  keep  it,  for  it  has  been  so  long  with  us, 
and  at  any  rate  it  will  be  something  belonging  to  my  old  favorite." 
Karine  then  laid  it  on  the  earth  in  a  little  flower-pot  which  stood 
in  the  window,  in  which  there  was  a  balsam  growing. 

The  long  winter  came,  and  much,  very  much  snow.  Karine 
and  her  bttle  brother  had  to  run  barefooted  through  it  all.  The 
boy  got  a  cough.  He  became  paler  and  paler,  would  not  eat  any- 
thing, and  lay  tired  and  weary,  just  like  the  grub  of  the  caterpillar 
shortly  before  it  became  a  chrysalis. 

The  snow  melted,  the  April  sun  reappeared,  but  the  little  boy 
played  out  of  doors  no  more.  His  sister  went  out  again  to  gather 
nettles  and  blue  anemones,  but  no  longer  with  a  merry  heart. 
When  she  came  home,  she  would  place  the  anemones  on  her  little 
brother's  sick-bed.  And  as  time  went  on,  one  day  he  lay  there 
stiff  and  cold,  with  eyes  fast  closed.  In  a  word,  he  was  dead. 
They  placed  him  in  a  coffin,  took  him  to  the  churchyard,  and  laid 
him  in  the  ground,  and  the  priest  threw  three  handfuls  of  earth 
over  the  coffin.  Karine's  heart  was  so  heavy  that  she  did  not 
heed  the  blessed  words  which  were  spoken  of  the  resurrection 
unto  everlasting  life. 

Karine  only  knew  that  her  brother  was  dead,  that  she  had  no 


154  CHILD  LIFE  IN  I' ROSE. 

longer  any  little  brother  whom  she  could  play  with,  and  love, 
and  be  loved  by  in  return.  She  wept  bitterly  when  she  thought 
how  gentle  and  good  he  was.  She  went  crying  into  the  meadows, 
gathered  all  the  flowers  and  young  leaves  she  could  And,  and 
strewed  them  on  her  brother's  grave,  and  sat  there  weeping  for 
many  hours. 

One  day  she  took  the  pot  with  the  balsam  in  it,  and  also  the 
chrysalis,  and  said,  "  I  will  plant  the  balsam  on  the  grave,  and 
bury  the  butterfly's  grub  with  my  dear  little  brother."  Again  she 
wept  bitterly  while  she  thought  to  herself :  "  Mother  said  that 
my  brother  lives,  and  is  happy  with  God  ;  but  I  saw  him  lying  in 
the  coffin,  and  put  into  the  grave,  and  how  can  he  then  come  back 
again  %  No,  no  ;  he  is  dead,  and  I  shall  never  see  either  of  them 
again." 

Poor  little  Karine  sobbed,  and  dried  her  tears  with  the  hand 
that  was  free.  In  the  other  lay  the  chrysalis,  and  the  sun  shone 
upon  it.  There  was  a  low  crackling  in  the  shell,  and  a  violent 
motion  within,  and,  behold !  she  saw  a  living  insect  crawl  out, 
which  threw  off  its  shell  as  a  man  would  his  cloak,  and  sat  on 
Karine's  hand,  breathing,  and  at  liberty.  In  a  short  time  wings 
began  to  appear  from  its  back.  Karine  looked  on  with  a  beating 
heart.  She  saw  its  wings  increase  in  size,  and  become  colored  in 
the  brightness  of  the  spring  sun.  Presently  the  new-born  butter- 
fly moved  its  proboscis,  and  tried  to  raise  its  young  wings,  and 
she  recognized  her  nettle  butterfly.  And  when,  after  an  hour,  he 
fluttered  his  wings  to  prepare  for  flight,  and  flew  around  the  cliild's 
head  and  among  the  flowers,  an  unspeakably  joyful  feeling  came 
over  Karine,  and  she  said,  "  The  shell  of  the  chrysalis  has  burst, 
and  the  caterpillar  within  has  got  wings  ;  in  like  manner  is  my 
little  brother  freed  from  his  mortal  body,  and  has  become  an  angel 
in  the  presence  of  God." 

In  the  night  she  dreamed  that  her  brother  and  herself,  with 
butterfly's  wings,  and  joy  beaming  in  their  eyes,  were  soaring  far, 
far  away,  above  their  earthly  home,  towards  the  millions  of  bright 
shining  stars ;  and  the  stars  became  flowers,  whose   nectar  they 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


155 


drank ;  and  over  them  was  a  wondrous  bright  light,  and  they 
heard  sounds  of  music,  —  so  grand  and  beautiful !  Karine  recog- 
nized the  tones  she  had  heard  on  earth,  when  their  father  pilayed 
for  her  and  her  little  brother  in  their  poor  cottage,  when  they 
were  hungry.  But  this  was  so  much  more  grand  !  Yet  it  was  so 
beautiful,  so  exceedingly  beautiful,  that  Karine  awoke.  A  rosy 
light  filled  the  room,  the  morning  dawn  was  breaking,  and  the 
sun  was  looking  in  love  upon  the  earth,  reviving  everything  with 
his  gentleness  and  strength. 

Karine  wept  no  more.  She  felt  great  inward  joy.  "When  she 
again  went  to  visit  the  nettles,  and  saw  the  little  caterpillars  crawl- 
ing on  the  leaves,  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  You  only  crawl  now, 
you  little  things .'  By  and  by  you  will  have  wings  as  well  as  I, 
and  you  know  not  how  glorious  it  will  be  at  the  last." 

From  the  Swedish. 


156  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


LITTLE   AETHUE'S   EEAYEE. 

THE  little  school-boys  went  quietly  to  their  own  beds,  and 
began  undressing  and  talking  to  one  another  in  whispers  ; 
wliile  the  elder,  amongst  whom  was  Tom,  sat  chatting  about  un 
one  another's  beds,  with  their  jackets  and  waistcoats  off.  Eoor 
little  Arthur  was  overwhelmed  with  the  novelty  of  his  position. 
The  idea  of  sleeping  in  the  room  with  strange  boys  had  clearly 
never  crossed  his  mind  before,  and  was  as  painful  as  it  was  strange 
to  him.  He  could  hardly  bear  to  take  his  jacket  off ;  however, 
presently,  with  an  effort,  off  it  came,  and  then  he  paused  and  looked 
at  Tom,  who  was  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  his  bed,  talking  and 
laughing. 

"  Please,  Brown,"  he  whispered,  "  may  I  wash  my  face  and 
hands?" 

"  Of  course,  if  you  like,"  said  Tom,  staring  ;  "  that 's  your  wash- 
hand-stand  under  the  window,  second  from  your  bed.  Tou  '11 
have  to  go  down  for  more  Water  in  the  morning  if  you  use  it  all." 
And  on  he  went  with  his  talk,  while  Arthur  stole  timidly  from 
between  the  beds  out  to  his  washhand-stand,  and  began  Ms  ablu- 
tions, thereby  drawing  for  a  moment  on  himself  the  attention  of 
the  room. 

On  went  the  talk  and  laughter.  Arthur  finished  his  washing 
and  undressing,  and  put  on  his  night-gown.  He  then  looked 
round  more  nervously  than  ever.  Two  or  three  of  the  little  boys 
were  already  in  bed,  sitting  up  with  their  chins  on  their  knees. 
The  light  burned  clear,  the  noise  went  on.  It  was  a  trying  mo- 
ment for  the  poor  little  lonely  boy ;  however,  this  time  he  did  not 
ask  Tom  what  he  might  or  might  not  do,  but  dropped  on  his 
knees  by  his  bedside,  as  he  had  done  every  day  from  his  child- 
hood, to  open  his  heart  to  Him  who  heareth  the  cry  and  beareth 
the  sorrows  of  the  tender  child,  and  the  strong  man  in  agony. 


ST  OKIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  157 


Tom  was  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  his  bed  unlacing  his  boots,  so 
that  his  back  was  towards  Arthur,  and  he  did  not  see  what  had 


l."iS  CHILD  LIFE  IX  I'llQSE. 

happened,  and  looked  up  in  wonder  at  the  sudden  silence.  Then 
two  or  three  boys  laughed  and  sneered,  and  a  big  brutal  fellow 
who  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  picked  uj>  a  slipper, 

and  shied  it  at  the  kneeling  boy,  calling  liim  a  snivelling  young 
shaver.  Then  Tom  saw  the  whole,  and  the  next  moment  the  boot 
he  had  just  pulled  off  Hew  straight  at  the  head  of  the  bully,  who 
had  just  time  to  throw  up  his  arm  and  catch  it  on  Ins  elbow. 

"Confound  you,  Brown;  what's  that  for!"  roared  he,  .stamp- 
ing with  pain. 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean,"  said  Tom,  stepping  on  to  the  floor, 
every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  tingling  ;  "  if  any  fellow  wants 
the  other  boot,  he  knows  how  to  get  it." 

What  would  have  been  the  result  is  doubtful,  for  at  this  moment 
iki%  sixth-form  boy  came  in,  and  not  another  word  could  be  said. 
Tom  and  the  rest  rushed  into  bed  and  finished  their  unrobing 
there,  and  the  old  verger,  as  punctual  as  the  clock,  had  put  out  the 
candle  in  another  minute,  and  toddled  on  to  the  next  room,  shut- 
ting their  door  with  his  usual  "  Good  night,  genl'ni'n." 

There  were  many  boys  in  the  room  by  whom  that  little  scene 
was  taken  to  heart  before  they  slept.  But  sleep  seemed  to  have 
deserted  the  pdlow  of  poor  Tom.  For  some  time  his  excitement, 
and  the  flood  of  memories  which  chased  one  another  through  his 
brain,  kept  him  from  thinking  or  resolving.  His  head  throbbed, 
his  heart  leapt,  and  he  could  hardly  keep  himself  from  springing 
out  of  bed  and  rushing  about  the  room.  Then  the  thought  of  his 
own  mother  came  across  him,  and  the  promise  he  had  made  at  her 
knee,  years  ago,  never  to  forget  to  kneel  by  his  bedside,  and 
give  himself  up  to  his  Father,  before  he  laid  his  head  on  the 
pillow,  from  which  it  might  never  rise  ;  and  he  lay  down  gently, 
and  cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He  was  only  fourteen 
years  old. 

It  was  no  light  act  of  courage  in  those  days  for  a  little  fellow  to 
say  his  prayers  publicly,  even  at  Rugby.  A  few  years  later,  when 
Arnold's  manly  piety  had  begun  to  leaven  the  school,  the  tables 
turned  ;  before  he  died,  in  the  schoolhouse  at   least,  and  I  believe 


STORIES  OF  CHILD   LIFE.  159 

in  the  other  houses,  the,  rule  was  the  other  way.  But  poor  Tom 
had  come  to  school  in  other  times.  The  first  few  nights  after  he 
came  he  did  not  kneel  down  because  of  the  n.  .ise,  hut  sat  up  in 
bed  till  the  candle  was  out,  and  then  stole  out  and  said  his  prayers, 
in  fear  lest  some  one  should  find  him  out.  So  did  many  another 
poor  little  fellow.  Then  he  began  to  think  that  he  might  just  as 
well  say  Ids  prayers  in  bed,  and  then  that  it  did  not  matter  whether 
he  was  kneeling,  or  sitting,  or  lying  down.  And  so  it  had  come 
to  pass  with  Tom,  as  with  all  who  will  not  confess  their  Lord  be- 
fore men ;  and  for  the  last  year  he  had  probably  not  said  his 
prayers  in  earnest  a  dozen  times. 

Poor  Tom  !  the  first  and  bitterest  feeling  which  was  like  to 
break  his  heart  was  the  sense  of  his  own  cowardice.  The  "vice  of 
all  others  which  he  loathed  was  brought  in  and  burned  in  on  his 
own  soul.  He  had  lied  to  his  mother,  to  his  conscience,  to  his 
God.  How  could  he  bear  it  1  And  then  the  poor  little  weak  boy, 
whom  he  had  pitied  and  almost  scorned  for  his  weakness,  had 
done  that  which  he,  braggart  as  he  was,  dared  not  do.  The  first 
dawn  of  comfort  came  to  him  in  vowing  to  himself  that  he  would 
stand  by  that  boy  through  thick  and  thin,  and  cheer  him,  and 
help  him,  and  bear  his  burdens,  for  the  good  deed  done  that 
night.  Then  he  resolved  to  write  home  next  day  and  tell  his 
mother  all,  and  what  a  coward  her  son  had  been.  And  then  peace 
came  to  him  as  he  resolved,  lastly,  to  bear  his  testimony  next 
morning.  The  morning  would  be  harder  than  the  night  to  begin 
with,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  afford  to  let  one  chance  slip. 
Several  times  he  faltered,  for  the  Devil  showed  him  first,  all  his 
old  friends  calling  him  "  Saint,"  and  "  Squaretoes,"  and  a  dozen 
hard  names,  and  whispered  to  him  that  his  motives  would  be  mis- 
understood, and  he  would  only  be  left  alone  with  the  new  boy ; 
whereas  it  was  his  duty  to  keep  all  means  of  influence,  that  he 
might  do  good  to  the  largest  number.  And  then  came  the  more 
subtle  temptation,  "  Shall  I  not  be  showing  myself  braver  than 
others  by  doing  this  1  Have  I  any  right  to  begin  it  now  1  Ought 
I  not  rather  to  pray  in   my  own  study,  letting   other  boys  know 


160  CHILD   LIFE  IN   PROSE. 

that  I  do  so,  and  trying  to  lead  them  to  it,  while  in  public  at  least 
I  should  go  on  as  I  have  done  1  "  However,  his  good  angel  was 
too  strong  that  night,  and  he  turned  on  his  side  and  slept,  tired 
of  trying  to  reason,  but  resolved  to  follow  the  impulse  which  had 
been  so  strong,  and  in  which  he  had  found  peace. 

Next  morning  he  was  up  and  washed  and  dressed,  all  but  his 
jacket  and  waistcoat,  just  as  the  ten  minutes'  bell  began  to  ring, 
and  then  in  the  face  of  the  whole  room  he  knelt  down  to  pray.  Not 
five  words  could  he  say,  —  the  bell  mocked  him  ;  he  was  listening 
for  every  whisper  in  the  room,  — what  were  they  all  thinking  of 
him  1  He  was  ashamed  to  go  on  kneeling,  ashamed  to  rise  from 
his  knees.  At  last,  as  it  were  from  his  inmost  heart,  a  still  small 
voice  seemed  to  breathe  forth  the  words  of  the  publican,  "  God  be 
merciful  to  me  a  sinner  !  "  He  repeated  them  over  anil  over, 
clinging  to  them  as  for  his  life,  and  rose  from  his  knees  comforted 
and  humbled,  and  ready  to  face  the  whole  world.  It  was  not 
needed  ;  two  other  boys  besides  Arthur  had  already  followed  Iris 
example,  and  he  went  down  to  the  great  school  with  a  glimmering 
of  another  lesson  in  his  heart,  —  the  lesson  that  he  who  has  con- 
quered his  own  coward  spirit  has  conquered  the  whole  outward 
world  ;  and  that  other  one  which  the  old  prophet  learned  in  the 
cave  at  Mount  Horeb,  when  he  hid  his  face,  and  the  still  small 
voice  asked,  "What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah  1 "  that  however  we 
may  fancy  ourselves  alone  on  the  side  of  good,  the  King  and  Lord 
of  men  is  nowhere  without  his  witnesses ;  for  in  every  society, 
however  seemingly  corrupt  and  godless,  there  are  those  who  have 
not  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal. 

He  found,  too.  how  greatly  he  had  exaggerated  the  effect  to  be 
produced  by  his  act.  For  a  few  nights  there  was  a  sneer  or  a 
laugh  when  he  knelt  down,  but  this  passed  off  soon,  and  one  by 
oue  all  the  other  boys  but  three  or  four  followed  the  lead. 

"  School-Days  at  Rugby." 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  161 


FAITH   AND    HER   MOTHER. 

AUNT  WINIFRED  went  again  to  Worcester  to-day.  She 
said  that  she  had  to  buy  trimming  for  Faith's  sack. 

She  went  alone,  as  usual,  and  Faith  and  I  kept  each  other  com- 
pany through  the  afternoon,  —  she  on  the  floor  with  her  doll,  I  in 
the  easy-chair  with  Macaulay.  As  the  light  began  to  fall  level  on 
the  floor,  I  threw  the  book  aside,  —  being  at  the  end  of  a  volume, 
—  and,  Mary  Ann  having  exhausted  her  attractions,  I  surrendered 
unconditionally  to  the  little  maiden. 

She  took  me  up  garret,  and  down  cellar,  on  top  of  the  wood- 
pile, and  into  the  apple-trees  ;  I  fathomed  the  mysteries  of  Old 
Man's  Castle  and  Still  Palm  ;  I  was  her  grandmother ;  I  was  her 
baby  ;  I  was  a  rabbit ;  I  was  a  chestnut  horse  ;  I  was  a  watch-dog ; 
I  was  a  mild-tempered  giant ;  I  was  a  bear,  "  warranted  not  to 
eat  little  girls  "  ;  I  was  a  roaring  hippopotamus  and  a  canary-bird  ; 
I  was  Jeff  Davis,  and  I  was  Moses  in  the  bulrushes  ;  and  of  what 
I  was,  the  time  faileth  me  to  tell. 

It  comes  over  me  with  a  curious,  mingled  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
and  the  horrible,  that  I  should  have  spent  the  afternoon  like  a 
baby  and  almost  as  happily,  laughing  out  with  the  child,  past  and 
future  forgotten,  the  tremendous  risks  of  "  I  spy  "  absorbing  all  my 
present,  while  what  was  happening  was  happening,  and  what  was 
to  come  was  coming.  Not  an  echo  in  the  air,  not  a  prophecy  in 
the  sunshine,  not  a  note  of  warning  in  the  song  of  the  robins  that 
watched  me  from  the  apple-boughs. 

As  the  long,  golden  afternoon  slid  away,  we  came  out  by  the 
front  gate  to  watch  for  the  child's  mother.  I  was  tired,  and,  lying 
back  on  the  grass,  gave  Faith  some  pink  and  purple  larkspurs,  that 
she  might  amuse  herself  in  making  a  chain  of  them.  The  picture 
that  she  made  sitting  there  on  the  short  dying  grass  —  the  light 

K 


162  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

which  broke  all  about  her  and  over  her  at  the  first,  creeping 'slowly 
down  and  away  to  the  west,  her  little  lingers  linking  the  rich, 
bright  flowers,  tube  into  tube,  the  dimple  on  her  cheek  and  the 
love  in  her  eyes  —  has  photographed  itself  into  my  thinking. 

How  her  voice  rang  out,  when  the  wheels  sounded  at  last,  and 
the  carriage,  somewhat  slowly  driven,  stopped ! 

"  Manima,  mamma  !  see  what  I  've  got  for  you,  mamma  ! " 

Auntie  tried  to  step  from  the  carriage,  and  called  me  :  "  Maty, 
can  you  help  me  a  little  ]     I  am  —  tired." 

I  went  to  her,  and  she  leaned  heavDy  on  my  arm,  and  we  came 
up  the  path. 

"  Such  a  pretty  little  chain,  all  for  you,  mamma,"  began  Faith, 
and  stopped,  struck  by  her  mother's  look. 

"  It  has  been  a  long  ride,  and  I  am  in  pain.  I  believe  T  will  lie 
right  down  on  the  parlor  sofa.  Mary,  would  you  be  kind  enough 
to  give  Faith  her  supper  and  put  her  to  bed  ] " 

Faith's  lip  grieved. 

"  Cousin  Mary  is  n't  you,  mamma.  I  want  to  be  kissed.  You 
have  n't  kissed  me." 

Her  mother  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  kissed  her  once, 
twice ;  put  both  arms  about  her  neck,  and  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall  without  a  word. 

"  Mamma  is  tired,  dear,"  I  said  ;  "  come  away." 

She  was  lying  quite  still  when  I  had  done  what  was  to  be  done 
for  the  child,  and  had  come  back.  The  room  was  nearly  dark.  1 
sat  down  on  my  cricket  by  her  sofa. 

"  Did  you  find  the  sack-trimming  1 "  I  ventured,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  believe  so,  —  yes." 

She  drew  a  little  package  from  her  pocket,  held  it  a  moment, 
then  let  it  roll  to  the  floor  forgotten.  When  I  picked  it  up,  the 
soft,  tissue-paper  wrapper  was  wet  and  hot  with  tears. 

"  Mary  % " 

"  Yes" 

"  I  never  thought  of  the  little  trimming  till  the  last  minute.  I 
had  another  errand." 


STORIES   Ob'  CHILD   LIFE. 


163 


I  waited. 

"  I  thought  at  first  I  would  not  tell  you  just  yet.     But  I  sup- 


pose the  time  has  come  ;  it  will  be  no  more  easy  to  put  it  off.     I 
liave  been  to  Worcester  all  these  times  to  see  a  doctor." 


](i4  CHILD   LIFE  IX  I'KOSE. 

I  bent  my  head  in  the  dark,  and  listened  for  the  rest. 

"  He  has  his  reputation;  they  said  he  could  help  me  if  anybody 
could.     He  thought  at  first  he  could.     But  to-day  —  " 

The  leaves  rustled  out  of  doors.  Faith,  up  stairs,  was  singing 
herself  to  sleep  with  a  droning  sound. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  must  give  up  and  be  sick 
now  ;  I  am  feeling  the  reaction  from  having  kept  up  so  long.  He 
thinks  1  shall  not  suffer  a  very  great  deal.  He  thinks  he  can 
relieve  me,  and  that  it  may  be  soon  over. 

"  There  is  no  chance  %  " 

"  No  chance." 

I  took  both  of  her  hands,  and  cried  out,  "  Auntie,  Auntie. 
Auntie  !"  and  tried  to  think  what  I  was  doing,  but  only  cried  out 
the  more. 

"  Why,  Mary  ! "  she  said  ;  "  why,  Mary  !  "  and  again,  as  before, 
she  passed  her  soft  hand  to  and  fro  across  my  hair,  till  by  and  by  I 
began  to  think,  as  I  had  thought  before,  that  I  could  bear  any- 
thing which  God,  who  loved  us  all,  —  who  surely  loved  us  all,  — 
should  send. 

So  then,  after  I  had  grown  still,  she  began  to  tell  me  about  it  in 
her  quiet  voice  ;  and  the  leaves  rustled,  and  Faith  had  sung  herself 
to  sleep,  and  I  listened  wondering.  For  there  was  no  pain  in  the 
quiet  voice,  —  no  pain,  nor  tone  of  fear.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  detected,  through  its  subdued  sadness,  a  secret,  suppressed  buoy- 
ancy of  satisfaction,  with  which  something  struggled. 

"  And  you  1 "  I  asked,  turning  quickly  upon  her. 

"  I  should  thank  God  with  all  my  heart,  Mary,  if  it  were  not 
for  Faith  and  you.     But  it  is  for  Faith  and  you.     That  's  all." 

"When  I  had  locked  the  front  door,  and  was  creeping  up  here  to 
my  room,  my  foot  crushed  something,  and  a  faint,  wounded  per- 
fume came  up.     It  was  the  little  pink  and  purple  chain. 

"  The  Gates  Ajar." 


S10UIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  165 


THE   OPEN   DOOR. 

POOE  Mrs.  Van  Loon  was  a  widow.  She  had  four  little  chil- 
dren.    The  eldest  was  Dirk,  a  boy  of  eight  years. 

One  evening  she  had  no  bread,  and  her  children  were  hungry. 
She  folded  her  hands,  and  prayed  to  God ;  for  she  served  the 
Lord,  and  she  believed  that  he  loved  and  could  help  her. 

When  she  had  finished  her  prayer,  Dirk  said  to  her,  "  Mother, 
don't  we  read  in  the  Bible  that  God  sent  ravens  to  a  pious  man  to 
bring  him  bread  1 " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  mother,  "  but  that  's  long,  long  ago,  my 
dear." 

"  Well,"  said  Dirk,  "  then  the  Lord  may  send  ravens  now.  I  '11 
go  and  open  the  door,  else  they  can't  fly  in." 

In  a  trice  Dirk  jumped  to  the  door,  which  he  left  wide  open,  so 
that  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell  on  the  pavement  of  the  street. 

Shortly  after,  the  burgomaster  passed  by.  The  burgomaster  is 
the  first  magistrate  of  a  Dutch  town  or  village.  Seeing  the  open 
door,  he  stopped. 

Looking  into  the  room,  he  was  pleased  with  its  clean,  tidy  ap- 
pearance, and  with  the  nice  little  children  who  were  grouped 
around  their  mother.  He  could  not  help  stepping  in,  and  approach- 
ing Mrs.  Van  Loon  he  said,  "  Eh,  my  good  woman,  why  is  your 
door  open  so  late  as  this  1 "' 

Mrs.  Van  Loon  was  a  little  confused  when  she  saw  such  a  well- 
dressed  gentleman  in  her  poor  room.  She  quickly  rose  and  dropped 
a  courtesy  to  the  gentleman  ;  then  taking  Dirk's  cap  from  his  head, 
and  smoothing  his  hair,  she  answered,  with  a  smile,  "  My  little 
Dirk  has  done  it,  sir,  that  the  ravens  may  fly  in  to  bring  us 
bread." 

Now,  the  burgomaster  was  dressed  in  a  black  coat  and  black 


166 


CHILD    LIFE   IX  PHONE. 


trousers,  and  he  wore  a  black  hat.     He  was  quite  black  all  over, 
except  his  collar  and  shirt-front. 

"  Ah  !  indeed  !  "  he  exclaimed  cheerfully.  "  Dirk  is  rijjjht.  Here 
is  a  raven,  you  see,  and  a  large  one  too.  Come  along,  Dirk,  and 
I  '11  show  you  where  the  bread  is." 

The  burgomaster  took  Dirk  to  his  house,  and  ordered  his  servant 
to  put  two  loaves  and  a  small  pot  of  butter  into  a  basket.  This  he 
gave  to  Dirk,  who  carried  it  home  as  quickly  as  he  could.  When 
the  other  little  children  saw  the  bread,  they  began  dancing  and 
clapping  their  hands.  The  mother  gave  to  each  of  them  a  thick 
slice  of  bread  and  butter,  which  they  ate  with  the  greatest  relish. 

When  they  had  finished  their  meal,  Dirk  went  to  the  open 
door,  and,  taking  his  cap  from  his  head,  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and 
said,  "  Many  thanks,  good  Lord  !  "  And  after  having  said  this,  he 
shut  the  door. 

John  de  Liefde. 


STORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  167 


THE  PKINCE'S   VISIT. 

IT  was  a  holiday  in  the  city,  for  the  Prince  was  to  arrive.  As 
soon  as  the  cannon  should  sound,  the  people  might  know  that 
the  Prince  had  landed  from  the  steamer ;  and  when  they  should 
hear  the  bells  ring,  that  was  much  the  same  as  being  told  that 
the  Mayor  and  Aldermen  and  City  Councillors  had  welcomed  the 
Prince,  by  making  speeches,  and  shaking  hands,  and  bowing,  and 
drinking  wine  ;  and  that  now  the  Prince,  dressed  in  splendid 
clothes,  and  wearing  a  feather  in  his  cap,  was  actually  on  his  way 
up  the  main  street  of  the  city,  seated  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four 
coal-black  horses,  preceded  by  soldiers  and  music,  and  followed  by 
soldiers,  citizens  in  carriages,  and  people  on  foot.  Now  it  was  the 
first  time  that  a  Prince  had  ever  visited  the  city,  and  it  might  be  the 
only  chance  that  the  people  ever  would  get  to  see  a  real  son  of  a 
king ;  and  so  it  was  universally  agreed  to  have  a  holiday,  and  long 
before  the  bells  rang,  or  even  the  cannon  sounded,  the  people  were 
nocking  into  the  main  street,  well  dressed,  as  indeed  they  ought  to 
be,  when  they  were  to  be  seen  by  a  Prince. 

It  was  holiday  in  the  stores  and  in  the  workshops,  although 
the  holiday  did  not  begin  at  the  same  hour  everywhere.  In  the 
great  laundry  it  was  to  commence  when  the  cannon  sounded  ;  and 
"  weak  Job,"  as  his  comrades  called  him,  who  did  nothing  all  day 
long  but  turn  the  crank  that  worked  a  great  washing-machine,  and 
which  was  quite  as  much,  they  said,  as  he  had  wits  to  do,  listened 
eagerly  for  the  sound  of  the  cannon  ;  and  when  he  heard  it,  he 
dropped  the  crank,  and,  getting  a  nod  from  the  head  man,  shuffled 
out  of  the  building  and  made  his  way  home. 

Since  he  had  heard  of  the  Prince's  coming,  Job  had  thought 
and  dreamed  of  nothing  else  ;  and  when  he  found  that  they  were 
to  have  a  holiday  on  his  arrival,  he  was  almost  beside  himself- 


168  CHILD   LIFE  IX  PliOSE. 

He  bought  a  picture  of  the  Prince,  and  pinned  it  up  on  the  wall 
over  his  bed  ;  and  when  he  came  home  at  night,  tired  and  hungry, 
he  would  sit  down  by  his  mother,  who  mended  rents  in  the  clothes 
brought  to  the  laundry,  and  talk  about  the  Prince  until  he  could 
not  keep  his  eyes  open  longer ;  then  his  mother  would  kiss  him 
and  send  him  to  bed,  where  he  knelt  down  and  prayed  the 
Lord  to  keep  the  Prince,  and  then  slept  and  dreamed  of  him,  dress- 
ing him  in  all  the  gorgeous  colors  that  his  poor  imagination  could 
devise,  while  his  mother  worked  late  in  her  solitary  room,  thinking 
of  her  only  boy ;  and  when  she  knelt  down  at  night,  she  prayed 
the  Lord  to  keep  him,  and  then  slept,  dreaming  also,  but  with 
various  fancies  ;  for  sometimes  she  seemed  to  see  Job  like  his  dead 
father,  —  strong  and  handsome  and  brave  and  quick-witted,  — 
and  now  she  woidd  see  him  playing  with  the  children,  or  shuffling 
down  the  court  with  his  head  leaning  on  his  shoulder. 

To-day  he  hurried  so  fast  that  he  was  panting  for  want  of  breath 
when  he  reached  the  shed-like  house  where  they  lived.  His 
mother  was  watching  for  him,  and  he  came  in  nodding  his  head 
and  rubbing  his  warm  face. 

"  The  cannon  has  gone  off,  mother,"  said  he,  in  great  excite- 
ment.    "  The  Prince  has  come  !  " 

"  Everything  is  ready,  Job,"  said  his  mother.  "  You  will  find 
all  your  things  in  a  row  on  the  bed."  And  Joe  tumbled  into  his 
room  to  dress  himself  for  the  holiday.  Everything  was  there  as 
his  mother  had  said  ;  all  the  old  things  renewed,  and  all  the  new 
tilings  pieced  together  that  she  had  worked  on  so  long,  and  every 
stitch  of  which  Job  had  overlooked  and  almost  directed.  If  there 
had  but  been  time  to  spare,  how  Job  would  have  liked  to  turn 
round  and  round  before  his  scrap  of  looking-glass  :  but  there  was 
no  time  to  spare,  and  so  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  was  out  again, 
and  showing  himself  to  his  mother. 

"  Is  n't  it  splendid  !  "  said  he,  surveying  himself  from  top  to 
toe,  and  looking  with  special  admiration  on  a  white  satin  scarf 
that  shone  round  his  throat  in  dazzling  contrast  to  the  dingy 
coat,  and  which  had  in  it  an  old  brooch  which  Job  treasured  as  the 


STORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  169 

apple  of  his  eye.  Job's  mother,  too,  looked  at  them  both  ;  and 
though  she  smiled  and  did  not  speak,  it  was  only  —  brave  woman  ! 
—  because  she  was  choking,  as  she  thought  how  the  satin  was  the 
last  remnant  of  her  wedding-dress,  and  the  brooch  the  last  trinket 
left  of  all  given  to  her  years  back. 

"  If  you  would  only  have  let  me  wear  the  feather,  mother  !  "  said 
Job,  sorrowfully,  in  regretful  remembrance  of  one  he  had  long 
hoarded,  and  which  he  had  begged  hard  to  wear  in  his  hat. 

"  You  look  splendidly,  Job,  and  don't  need  it,"  said  she,  cheer- 
fully ;  "  and,  besides,  the  Prince  wears  one,  and  what  would  he 
think  if  he  saw  you  with  one,  too  ] " 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  Job,  who  had  not  thought  of  that  before  ; 
and  then  he  kissed  her  and  started  off,  while  she  stood  at  the  door 
looking  anxiously  after  him.  "  I  don't  believe,"  said  he,  aloud,  as 
he  went  up  the  court,  "  that  the  Prince  would  mind  my  wearing  a 
feather  ;  but  mother  did  n't  want  me  too.  Hark  !  there  are  the 
bells !  Yes,  he  has  started !  "  And  Job,  forgetting  all  else, 
pushed  eagerly  on.  It  was  a  long  way  from  the  laundry  to  his 
home,  and  it  was  a  long  way,  too,  from  his  home  to  the  main 
street ;  and  so  Job  had  no  time  to  spare  if  he  would  get  to  the 
crowd  in  season  to  see  the  grand  procession,  for  he  wanted  to  see  it 
all,  —  from  the  policemen,  who  cleared  the  way,  to  the  noisy  omni- 
buses and  carts  that  led  business  once  more  up  the  holiday  streets. 
On  he  shambled,  knocking  against  the  flag-stones,  and  nearly 
precipitating  himself  down  areas  and  unguarded  passage-ways.  He 
was  now  in  a  cross  street,  which  would  bring  him  before  long  into 
the  main  street,  and  he  even  thought  he  heard  the  distant  music 
and  the  cheers  of  the  crowd.  His  heart  beat  high,  and  his  face 
was  lighted  up  until  it  really  looked,  in  its  eagerness,  as  intelli- 
gent as  that  of  other  people  quicker  witted  than  poor  Job.  And 
now  he  had  come  in  sight  of  the  great  thoroughfare  ;  it  was  yet 
a  good  way  off,  but  he  could  see  the  black  swarms  of  people  that 
lined  its  edges.  The  street  he  was  in  was  quiet,  so  were  all  the 
cross  streets,  for  they  had  been  drained  of  life  to  feed  the  great  artery 
of  the  main  street.     There,  indeed,  was  life  !  upon  the  sidewalks, 


170  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

packed  densely,  flowing  out  in  eddies  into  the  alleys  and  cross 
streets,  rising  tier  above  tier  in  the  shop-fronts,  tilling  all  the  upper 
windows,  and  fringing  even  the  roofs.  Flags  hung  from  house  to 
house,  and  sentences  of  welcome  were  written  upon  strips  of  can- 
vas. And  if  one  at  this  moment,  when  weak  Job  was  hurrying 
up  the  cross  street,  could  have  looked  from  some  house-top  down 
the  main  street,  he  would  have  seen  the  Prince's  pageant  coming 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  would  have  heard  the  growing  tumult  of 
brazen  music,  and  the  waves  of  cheers  that  broke  along  the  lines. 

It  was  a  glimpse  of  this  sight,  and  a  note  of  this  sound, 
that  weak  Job  caught  in  the  still  street,  and  with  new  ardor, 
although  hot  and  dusty,  he  pressed  on,  almost  weeping  at  thought 
of  the  joy  he  was  to  have.  "  The  Prince  is  coming,"  he  said, 
aloud,  in  his  excitement.  But  at  the  next  step,  Job,  recklessly 
tumbling  along,  despite  his  weak  and  troublesome  legs,  struck 
something  with  his  feet,  and  fell  forward  upon  the  walk.  He 
could  not  stop  to  see  what  it  was  that  so  suddenly  and  vexatiouslj' 
tripped  him  up,  and  was  just  moving  on  with  a  limp,  when  he 
heard  behind  him  a  groan  and  a  cry  of  pain.  He  turned  and  saw 
what  his  unlucky  feet  had  stumbled  over.  A  poor  negro  boy, 
without  home  or  friends,  black  and  unsightly  enough,  and  clad  in 
ragged  clothing,  had  sat  down  upon  the  sidewalk,  leaning  against 
a  tree,  and,  without  strength  enough  to  move,  had  been  the  unwill- 
ing stumbling-block  to  poor  Job's  progress.  As  Job  turned,  the 
poor  boy  looked  at  him  beseechingly,  and  stretched  out  his  hands. 
But  even  that  was  an  exertion,  and  his  arms  dropped  by  his  side 
again.  His  lips  moved,  but  no  word  came  forth  ;  and  his  eyes 
even  closed,  as  if  he  could  not  longer  raise  the  lids. 

"  He  is  sick  !  "  said  Job,  and  looked  uneasily  about.  There  was 
no  one  near.  "  Hilloa  !  "  cried  Job  in  distress  ;  but  no  one  heard 
except  the  black,  who  raised  his  eyes  again  to  him,  and  essayed  to 
move.     Job  started  toward  him. 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! "  sounded  in  the  distant  street.  The  roar 
of  the  cheering  beat  against  the  houses,  and  at  intervals  came  gusts 
of  music.     Poor  Job  trembled. 


STORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  171 

"  The  Prince  is  coming,"  said  he  ;  and  he  turned  as  if  to  run. 
But  the  poor  black  would  not  away  from  his  eyes.  "  He  might 
die  while  I  was  gone,"  said  he,  and  he  turned  again  to  lift  him  up. 
"  He  is  sick  !  "  he  said  again.    "  I  will  take  him  home  to  mother  !  " 

"  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  there  he  is  !  the  Prince !  the  Prince  !  " 
And  the  dull  roar  of  the  cheering,  which  had  been  growing  louder 
and  louder,  now  broke  into  sharp  ringing  huzzas  as  the  grand 
procession  passed  the  head  of  the  cross  street.  In  the  carriage 
drawn  by  four  coal-black  horses  rode  the  Prince  ;  and  he  was 
dressed  in  splendid  clothes  and  wore  a  feather  in  his  cap.  The 
music  flowed  forth  clearly  and  sweetly.  "  God  save  the  king  ! "  it  ' 
sang,  and  from  street  and  window  and  house-top  the  people 
shouted  and  waved  flags.     Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

"Weak  Job,  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  heard  the  sound  from 
afar,  but  he  saw  no  sight  save  the  poor  black  whom  he  lifted  from 
the  ground.  No  sight?  Yes,  at  that  moment  he  did.  In  that 
quiet  street,  standing  by  the  black  boy,  poor  Job  —  weak  Job, 
whom  people  pitied  —  saw  a  grander  sight 'than  all  the  crowd  in 
the  brilliant  main  street. 

Well  mightst  thou  stand  in  dumb  awe,  holding  by  the  hand  the 
helpless  black,  poor  Job !  for  in  that  instant  thou  didst  see 
with  undimmed  eyes  a  pageant  such  as  poor  mortals  may  but 
whisper,  —  even  the  Prince  of  Life  with  his  attendant  angels 
moving  before  thee  ;  yes,  and  on  thee  did  the  Prince  look  with 
love,  and  in  thy  ears  did  the  heavenly  choir  and  the  multitudinous 
voices  of  gathered  saints  sing,  for  of  old  were  the  words  written, 
and  now  thou  didst  hear  them  spoken  to  thyself,  — 

"  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my 
brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me. 

"  For  whosoever  shall  receive  one  of  such  children  in  my  name, 
receiveth  me." 

"Weak  Job,  too,  had  seen  the  Prince  pass. 

Horace  Scudder. 


FANCIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


THE   HEN  THAT   HATCHED   DUCKS. 

ONCE  there  was  a  nice  young  hen  that  we  will  call  Mrs.  Feath- 
ertop.  She  was  a  lien  of  most  excellent  family,  being  a 
direct  descendant  of  the  Bolton  Grays,  and  as  pretty  a  young  fowl 
as  you  should  wish  to  see  of  a  summer's  day.  She  was,  moreover, 
as  fortunately  situated  in  life  as  it  was  possible  for  a  hen  to  be. 
She  was  bought  by  young  Master  Fred  Little  John,  with  four  or 
five  family  connections  of  hers,  and  a  lively  young  cock,  who  was 
held  to  be  as  brisk  a  scratcher  and  as  capable  a  head  of  a  family  as 
any  half-dozen  sensible  hens  could  desire. 

I  can't  say  that  at  first  Mrs.  Feathertop  was  a  very  sensible  hen. 
She  was  very  pretty  and  lively,  to  be  sure,  and  a  great  favorite  with 
Master  Bolton  Gray  Cock,  on  account  of  her  bright  eyes,  her  finely 
shaded  feathers,  and  certain  saucy  dashing  ways  that  she  had, 
which  seemed  greatly  to  take  his  fancy.  But  old  Mrs.  Scratchard, 
living  in  the  neighboring  yard,  assured  all  the  neighborhood  that 
Gray  Cock  was  a  fool  for  thinking  so  much  of  that  flighty  young 
thing,  —  that  she  had  not  the  smallest  notion  how  to  get  on  in  life, 
and  thought  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  her  own  pretty  feathers. 
"  Wait  till  she  comes  to  have  chickens,"  said  Mrs.  Scratchard. 
"  Then  you  will  see.  I  have  brought  up  ten  broods  myself,  —  as 
likely  and  respectable  chickens  as  ever  were  a  blessing  to  society, 
—  and  I  think  I  ought  to  know  a  good  hatcher  and  brooder  when 
I  see  her  ;  and  I  know  that  fine  piece  of  trumpery,  with  her  white 
feathers   tipped   with  gray,  never  will  come  down  to  family  life. 


176  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

She  scratch  fur  chickens!     Bless  me,  she  never  did  anything  in  all 

her  days  but  run  round  and  eat  the  worms  which  somebody  else 
scratched  up  for  her  !  " 

When  Master  Bolton  Gray  heard  this  he  crowed  very  loudly, 
like  a  cock  of  spirit,  and  declared  that  old  Mrs.  Scratchard  was  en- 
vious because  she  had  lost  all  her  own  tail-feathers,  and  iooked  more 
like  a  worn-out  old  feather-duster  than  a  respectable  hen,  and  that 
therefore  she  was  filled  with  sheer  envy  of  anybody  that  was  young 
and  pretty.  So  young  Mrs.  Feathertop  cackled  gay  defiance  at 
her  busy  rubbishy  neighbor,  as  she  sunned  herself  under  the 
bnshes  on  fine  June  afternoons. 

Now  Master  Fred  Little  John  had  been  allowed  to  have  these 
hens  by  his  mamma  on  the  condition  that  he  would  build  their 
house  himself,  and  take  all  the  care  of  it ;  and,  to  do  Master  Fred 
justice,  he  executed  the  job  in  a  small  way  quite  creditably.  He 
chose  a  sunny  sloping  bank  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  bushes, 
and  erected  there  a  nice  little  hen-house,  with  two  glass  windows, 
a  little  door,  and  a  good  pole  for  his  family  to  roost  on.  He  made, 
moreover,  a  row  of  nice  little  boxes  with  hay  in  them  for  nests, 
and  he  bought  three  or  four  little  smooth  white  china  eggs  to  put 
in  them,  so  that,  when  his  hens  did  lay,  he  might  carry  off  their 
eggs  without  their  being  missed.  The  hen-house  stood  in  a  little 
grove  that  sloped  down  to  a  wide  river,  just  where  there  was  a 
little  cove  which  reached  almost  to  the  hen-house. 

This  situation  inspired  one  of  Master  Fred's  boy  advisers  with  a 
new  scheme  in  relation  to  his  poultry  enterprise.  "  Hullo  !  I  say, 
Fred,"  said  Tom  Seymour,  "  you  ought  to  raise  ducks,  —  you  've 
got  a  capital  place  for  ducks  there." 

"  Yes, —  but  I  've  bought  hens,  you  see,"  said  Freddy  ;  "  so  it  's 
no  use  trying." 

"  No  use  !  Of  course  there  is  !  Just  as  if  your  hens  could  n't 
hatch  ducks'  eggs.  Now  you  just  wait  till  one  of  your  hens 
wants  to  set,  and  you  put  ducks'  eggs  under  her,  and  you  '11  have  a 
family  of  ducks  in  a  twinkling.  You  can  buy  ducks'  eggs,  a  plenty, 
of  old  Sam  under  the  hill  ;  he  always  has  hens  hatch  his  ducks." 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  177 

So  Freddy  thought  it  would  be  a  good  experiment,  and  informed 
his  mother  the  next  morning  that  he  intended  to  furnish  the  ducks 
for  the  next  Christmas  dinner  ;  and  when  she  wondered  how  he 
was  to  come  by  them,  he  said,  mysteriously,  "  0,  I  will  show  you 
how  ! "  but  did  not  further  explain  himself.  The  next  day  he 
went  with  Tom  Seymour,  and  made  a  trade  with  old  Sam,  and  gave 
hitn  a  middle-aged  jaclc -knife  for  eight  of  his  ducks'  eggs.  Sam,  by 
the  by,  was  a  woolly-headed  old  negro  man,  who  lived  by  the  pond 
hard  by,  and  who  had  long  cast  envying  eyes  on  Fred's  jack-knife, 
because  it  was  of  extra-fine  steel,  having  been  a  Christmas  present 
the  year  before.  But  Fred  knew  very  well  there  were  any  number 
more  of  jack-knives  where  that  came  from,  and  that,  in  order  to 
get  a  new  one,  he  must  dispose  of  the  old  ;  so  he  made  the  trade 
and  came  home  rejoicing. 

Now  about  this  time  Mrs.  Feathertop,  having  laid  her  eggs  daily 
with  great  credit  to  herself,  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Scratchard's 
predictions,  began  to  find  herself  suddenly  attacked  with  nervous 
symptoms.  She  lost  her  gay  spirits,  grew  dumpish  and  morose, 
stuck  up  her  feathers  in  a  bristling  way,  and  pecked  at  her  neigh- 
bors if  they  did  so  much  as  look  at  her.  Master  Gray  Cock  was 
greatly  concerned,  and  went  to  old  Doctor  Peppercorn,  who  looked 
solemn,  and  recommended  an  infusion  of  angle-worms,  and  said  he 
would  look  in  on  the  patient  twice  a  day  till  she  was  better. 

"  Gracious  me,  Gray  Cock  !  "  said  old  Goody  Kertarkut,  who 
had  been  lolling  at  the  corner  as  he  passed,  "  a'n't  you  a  fool?  — 
cocks  always  are  fools.  Don't  you  know  what  's  the  matter  with 
your  wife  ']  She  wants  to  set,  —  that 's  all ;  and  you  just  let  her 
set !  A  fiddlestick  for  Doctor  Peppercorn  !  Why,  any  good  old 
hen  that  has  brought  up  a  family  knows  more  than  a  doctor  about 
such  things.  You  just  go  home  and  tell  her  to  set,  if  she  wants 
to,  and  behave  herself." 

When  Gray  Cock  came  home,  he  found  that  Master  Freddy  had 
been  before  him,  and  established  Mrs.  Feathertop  upon  eight  nice 
eggs,  where  she  was  sitting  in  gloomy  grandeur.  He  tried  to  make 
a  little  affable  conversation  with  her,  and  to  relate  his  interview 


17S  CHILD  LIFE  IX  l'ROSE. 

with  tlie  Doctor  and  Goody  Kertarkut,  lmt  she  was  morose  and 
sullen,  and  only  pecked  at  him  now  and  then  in  a  very  sharp,  un- 
pleasant way  ;  so,  after  a  few  more  efforts  t"  make  himself  agree- 
able, he  left  her,  and  went  out  promenading  with  the  captivating 
Mrs.  Red  Comb,  a  charming  young  Spanish  widow,  who  hail  just 
been  imported  into  the  neighboring  yard. 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  said  he,  "  you  've  no  idea  how  cross  my 
wife  is." 

"  0  you  horrid  creature  !  "  said  Mrs.  Red  Comb  ;  "  how  little  you 
feel  for  the  weaknesses  of  us  poor  hens  !  " 

"  On  my  word,  ma'am,"  said  Gray  Cock,  "  you  do  me  injustice. 
But  when  a  hen  gives  way  to  temper,  ma'am,  and  no  longer  meets 
her  husband  with  a  smile,  —  when  she  even  pecks  at  him  whom 
she  is  bound  to  honor  and  obey  —  " 

"  Horrid  monster !  talking  of  obedience  !  I  should  say,  sir,  you 
came  straight  from  Turkey  !  "  And  Mrs.  Bed  Comb  tossed  her  head 
with  a  most  bewitching  air,  and  pretended  to  run  away,  and  old 
Mrs.  Scratchard  looked  out  of  her  coop  and  called  to  Goody  Ker- 
tarkut, — 

"  Look  how  Mr.  Gray  Cock  is  flirting  with  that  widow.  I  always 
knew  she  was  a  baggage." 

"  And  his  poor  wife  left  at  home  alone,"  said  Goody  Kertarkut. 
"  It  's  the  way  with  'em  all  !  " 

"  Yes.  yes,"  said  Dame  Scratchard,  "  she  '11  know  what  real  life 
is  now,  and  she  won't  go  about  holding  her  head  so  high,  and 
looking  down  on  her  practical  neighbors  that  have  raised  families." 

"  Poor  thing,  what  '11  she  do  with  a  family  1  "  said  Goody  Ker- 
tarkut. 

"  Well,  what  business  have  such  young  flirts  to  get  married," 
said  Dame  Scratchard.  "  I  don't  expect  she  '11  raise  a  single  chick ; 
and  there  ',s  Gray  Cock  flirting  about  fine  as  ever.  Folks  did  n't 
do  so  when  I  was  young.  I  'm  sure  my  husband  knew  what  treat- 
ment a  setting  hen  ought  to  have,  —  poor  old  Long  Spur.  —  he 
never  minded  a  peck  or  so  now  and  then.  I  must  say  these  modern 
fowls  a'n't  what  fowls  used  to  be." 


FANCIES   OF   CHILD   LIFE.  179 

Meanwhile  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  Master  Fred  was  almost 
the  only  friend  and  associate  of  poor  little  Mrs.  Feathertop,  whom 
he  fed  daily  with  meal  and  water,  and  only  interrupted  her  sad  re- 
flections by  pulling  her  up  occasionally  to  see  how  the  eggs  were 
coming  on. 

At  last  "  Peep,  peep,  peep  !"  began  to  be  heard  in  the  nest,  and 
one  little  downy  head  after  another  poked  forth  from  under  the 
feathers,  surveying  the  world  with  round,  bright,  winking  eyes ; 
and  gradually  the  brood  was  hatched,  and  Mrs.  Feathertop  arose,  a 
proud  and  happy  mother,  with  all  the  bustling,  scratching,  care- 
taking  instincts  of  family  life  warm  within  her  breast.  She 
clucked  and  scratched,  and  cuddled  the  little  downy  bits  of  things 
as  handily  and  discreetly  as  a  seven-year-old  hen  could  have  done, 
exciting  thereby  the  wonder  of  the  community. 

Master  Gray  Cock  came  home  in  high  spirits  and  complimented 
her ;  told  her  she  was  looking  charmingly  once  more,  and  said, 
"  Very  well,  very  nice  !  "  as  he  surveyed  the  young  brood.  So 
that  Mrs.  Feathertop  began  to  feel  the  world  going  well  with  her, 
—  when  suddenly  in  came  Dame  Scratchard  and  Goody  Kertarkut 
to  make  a  morning  call. 

"  Let  's  see  the  chicks,"  said  Dame  Scratchard. 

"  Goodness  me,"  said  Goody  Kertarkut,  "  what  a  likeness  to 
their  dear  papa  !  " 

"  Well,  but  bless  me,  what 's  the  matter  with  their  bills  1 "  said 
Dame  Scratchard.  "  Why,  my  dear,  these  chicks  are  deformed  ! 
I  'm  sorry  for  you,  my  dear,  but  it 's  all  the  result  of  your  inex- 
perience ;  you  ought  to  have  eaten  pebble-stones  with  your  meal 
when  you  were  setting.  Don't  you  see,  Dame  Kertarkut,  what 
bills  they  have  t     That  '11  increase,  and  they  '11  be  frightful !  " 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Feathertop,  now  greatly  alarmed. 

"  Nothing  as  I  know  of,"  said  Dame  Scratchard,  "  since  you 
did  n't  come  to  me  before  you  set.  I  could  have  told  you  all 
about  it.  Maybe  it  won't  kill  'em,  but  they  '11  always  be  de- 
formed." 

And   so   the   gossips   departed,  leaving  a   sting  under  the  pin- 


180 


CHILD   LIFE  IN  PliOSE., 


feathers  of  the  poor  little  hen  mamma,  who  began  to  see  that  her 
darlings  had  curious  little  spoon-hills  different  from  her  own,  and 
to  worry  and  fret  ahout  it. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  to  her  spouse,  "  do  get  Doctor  Peppercorn  to 
to  come  in  and  look  at  their  hills,  and  see  if  anything  can  be  done." 


Doctor  Peppercorn  came  in,  and  put  on  a  monstrous  pair  of 
spectacles,  and  said,  "  Hum  !  Ha  !  Extraordinary  case,  —  very 
singular  !  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it,  Doctor  ] "  said  both  parents, 
in  a  breath. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  IgJ 

"  I  've  read  of  such  cases.  It 's  a  calcareous  enlargement  of  the 
vascular  bony  tissue,  threatening  ossification,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  0,  dreadful !  —  can  it  be  possible  1 "  shrieked  both  parents. 
"  Can  anything  be  done  1 " 

"  Well,  I  should  recommend  a  daily  lotion  made  of  mosquitoes' 
horns  and  bicarbonate  of  frogs'  toes,  together  with  a  powder,  to  be 
taken  morning  and  night,  of  muriate  of  fleas.  One  thing  you 
must  be  careful  about  :  they  must  never  wet  their  feet,  nor  drink 
any  water." 

"  Dear  me,  Doctor,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,  for  they  seem 
to  have  a  particular  fancy  for  getting  into  water." 

"  Yes,  a  morbid  tendency  often  found  in  these  cases  of  bony 
tumification  of  the  vascular  tissue  of  the  mouth  ;  but  you  must 
resist  it,  ma'am,  as  their  life  depends  upon  it."  And  with  that 
Doctor  Peppercorn  glared  gloomdy  on  the  young  ducks,  who  were 
stealthily  poking  the  objectionable  little  spoon-bills  out  from  under 
their  mother's  feathers. 

After  this  poor  Mrs.  Feathertop  led  a  weary  life  of  it ;  for  the 
young  fry  were  as  healthy  and  enterprising  a  brood  of  young  ducks 
as  ever  earned  saucepans  on  the  end  of  their  noses,  and  they  most 
utterly  set  themselves  against  the  doctor's  prescriptions,  murmured 
at  the  muriate  of  fleas  and  the  bicarbonate  of  frogs'  toes,  and  took 
every  opportunity  to  waddle  their  little  ways  down  to  the  mud  and 
water  which  was  in  their  near  vicinity.  So  their  bills  grew  larger 
and  larger,  as  did  the  rest  of  their  bodies,  and  family  government 
gTew  weaker  and  weaker. 

"  You  '11  wear  me  out,  children,  you  certainly  will,"  said  poor 
Mrs.  Feathertop. 

"  You  '11  go  to  destruction,  —  do  ye  hear  1 "  said  Master  Gray 
Cock. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  frights  as  poor  Mrs.  Feathertop  has 
got1?"  said  Dame  Scratchard.  "  I  knew  what  would  come  of  her 
family,  —  all  deformed,  and  with  a  dreadful  sort  of  madness,  which 
makes  them  love  to  shovel  mud  with  those  shocking  spoon-bills  of 
theirs." 


iy:>  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

"It  's  a  kind  of  idiocy,"  said  Goody  Kertarkut.  "Poor  things  ! 
they  can't  be  kept  from  the  water,  nor  made  to  take  powders,  and 
so  they  get  worse  and  worse." 

"I  understand  it  's  affecting  their  feet  so  that  they  can't  walk, 
and  a  dreadful  sort  of  net  is  growing  between  their  toes  ;  what  a 
shocking  visitation !  " 

"  She  brought  it  on  herself,"  said  Dame  Scratchard.  "  Why 
did  n't  she  come  to  me  before  she  set  1  She  was  always  an  upstart, 
self-conceited  thing,  but  I  'in  sure  I  pity  her." 

Meanwhile  the  young  ducks  throve  apace.  Their  necks  grew 
glossy  like  changeable  green  and  gold  satin,  and  though  they 
would  not  take  the  doctor's  medicine,  and  would  waddle  in  the 
mud  and  water,  —  for  which  they  always  felt  themselves  to  be  very 
naughty  ducks,  —  yet  they  grew  quite  vigorous  and  hearty.  At 
last  one  day  the  whole  little  tribe  waddled  off  down  to  the  bank 
of  the  river.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  river  was  dancing 
and  dimpling  and  winking  as  the  little  breezes  shook  the  trees  that 
hung  over  it. 

"  "Well,"  said  the  biggest  of  the  little  ducks,  "  in  spite  of  Doctor 
Peppercorn,  I  can't  help  longing  for  the  water.  I  don't  believe  it 
is  going  to  hurt  me, —  at  any  rate,  here  goes."  And  in  he 
plumped,  and  in  went  every  duck  after  him,  and  they  threw  out 
their  great  brown  feet  as  cleverly  as  if  they  had  taken  rowing  les- 
sons all  their  lives,  and  sailed  off  on  the  river,  away,  away,  among  ■ 
the  ferns,  under  the  pink  azalias,  through  reeds  and  rushes,  and 
arrow-heads  and  pickerel-weed,  the  happiest  ducks  that  ever  were 
born  ;  and  soon  they  were  quite  out  of  sight. 

""Well,  Mrs.  Feathertop,  this  is  a  dispensation,"  said  Mrs. 
Scratchard.  "  Your  children  are  all  drowned  at  last,  just  as  I 
knew  they  'd  be.  The  old  music-teacher,  Master  Bullfrog,  that 
lives  down  in  Water-Dock  Lane,  saw  'em  all  plump  madly  into  the 
water  together  this  morning  ;  that 's  what  comes  of  not  knowing 
how  to  bring  up  a  family." 

Mrs.  Feathertop  gave  only  one  shriek  and  fainted  dead  away, 
and  was  carried  home  on  a  cabbage-leaf,  and  Mr.   Gray  Cock  was 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  183 

sent  for,  where  lie  was  waiting  on  Mrs.  Eed  Comb  through  the 
squash-vines. 

"  It  's  a  serious  time  in  your  family,  sir,"  said  Goody  Kertarkut, 
"  and  you  ought  to  be  at  home  supporting  your  wife.  Send  for 
Doctor  Peppercorn  without  delay." 

Now  as  the  case  was  a  very  dreadful  one,  Doctor  Peppercorn 
called  a  council  from  the  barn-yard  of  the  Squire,  two  miles  off, 
and  a  brisk  young  Doctor  Partlett  appeared,  in  a  fine  suit  of  brown 
and  gold,  with  tail-feathers  like  meteors.  A  fine  young  fellow  he 
was,  lately  from  Paris,  with  all  the  modern  scientific  improvements 
fresh  in  his  head. 

When  he  had  listened  to  the  whole  story,  he  clapped  his  spur 
into  the  ground,  and,  leaning  back,  laughed  so  loud  that  all  the 
cocks  in  the  neighborhood  crowed. 

Mrs.  Feathertop  rose  up  out  of  her  swoon,  and  Mr.  Gray  Cock 
was  greatly  enraged. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  such  behavior  in  the  house  of 
mourning  1  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  pardon  me,  —  but  there  is  no  occasion  for  mourn- 
ing. My  dear  madam,  let  me  congratulate  you.  There  is  no  harm 
done.  The  simple  matter  is,  dear  madam,  you  have  been  under  a 
hallucination  all  along.  The  neighborhood  and  my  learned  friend 
the  doctor  have  all  made  a  mistake  in  thinking  that  these  children 
of  yours  were  hens  at  all.  They  are  ducks,  ma'am,  evidently 
ducks,  and  very  finely  formed  ducks,  I  dare  say." 

At  this  moment  a  quack  was  heard,  and  at  a  distance  the  whole 
tribe  were  seen  coming  waddling  home,  their  feathers  gleaming  in 
green  and  gold,  and  they  themselves  in  high  good  spirits. 

"  Such  a  splendid  day  as  we  have  had  !  "  they  all  cried  in  a 
breath.  "  And  we  know  now  how  to  get  our  own  living  ;  we  can 
take  care  of  ourselves  in  future,  so  you  need  have  no  further 
trouble  with  us." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  Doctor,  making  a  bow  with  an  air  which 
displayed  his  tail-feathers  to  advantage,  "  let  me  congratulate  you 
on  the  charming  family  you  have  raised.     A  finer  brood  of  young 


1X4 


CHILD   LIFE   IX  PROSE. 


healthy  ducks  I  never  saw.  Give  claw,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said, 
addressing  the  elder  son.  "  In  our  barn-yard  no  family  is  more 
respected  than  that  of  the  ducks." 

And  so  Madam  Feathertop  came  off  glorious  at  last ;  and  when 
after  this  the  ducks  used  to  go  swimming  up  and  down  the  river  like 
so  many  nabobs  among  the  admiring  hens,  Doctor  Peppercorn  used 
to  look  after  them  and  say,  "All !  I  had  the  care  of  their  infancy  .'  " 
and  Mr.  Gray  Cock  and  his  wife  used  to  say,  "  It  was  our  system 
of  education  did  that !  " 

Harriet  Beec/ter  Stoive. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


18? 


BLUNDER. 

BLUNDER  was  going  to  the  Wishing-Gate,  to  wish  for  a  pair 
of  Shetland  ponies,  and  a  little  coach,  like  Tom  Thumb's. 
And  of  course  you  can  have  your  wish,  if  you  once  get  there.  But 
the  thing  is,  to  find  it  ;  for  it  is  not,  as  you  imagine,  a  great  gate, 
with  a  tall  marble  pillar  on  each  side,  and  a  sign  over  the  top,  like 
this,  WISHING-GATE,  —  but  just  an  old  stile,  made  of  three 
sticks.  Put  up  two  fingers,  cross  them  on  the  top  with  another 
finger,  and  you  have  it  exactly,  —  the  way  it  looks,  I  mean,  —  a 


186  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

worm-eaten  stile,  in  a  meadow  ;  and  as  there  are  plenty  of  old 
stiles  in  meadows,  how  are  you  to  know  which  is  the  one  | 

Blunder's  fairy  godmother  knew,  but  then  she  could  not  tell  him. 
for  that  was  not  according  to  fairy  rules  and  regulations.  She 
could  only  direct  him  to  follow  the  road,  and  ask  the  way  of  tin- 
first  owl  he  met  ;  and  over  and  over  she  charged  him,  for  Blunder 
was  a  very  careless  little  boy,  and  seldom  found  anything,  "  Be 
sure  you  don't  miss  him,  —  be  sure  you  don't  pass  him  by."  And 
so  far  Blunder  had  come  on  very  well,  for  the  road  was  straight ; 
but  at  the  turn  it  forked.  Should  he  go  through  the  wood,  or  turn 
to  the  right1?  There  was  an  owl  nodding  in  a  tall  oak-tree,  the 
first  owl  Blunder  had  seen  ;  but  he  was  a  little  afraid  to  wake  him 
up,  for  Blunder's  fairy  godmother  had  told  him  that  this  was  a 
great  philosopher,  who  sat  up  all  night  to  study  the  habits  of  frogs 
and  mice,  and  knew  everything  but  what  went  on  in  the  daylight, 
under  his  nose  ;  and  he  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  to 
this  great  philosopher  than  "  Good  Mr.  Owl,  will  you  please  show 
me  the  way  to  the  Wishing-Gate  I " 

"  Eh  !  what 's  that  I  "  cried  the  owl,  starting  out  of  his  nap. 
"  Have  you  brought  me  a  frog  1 " 

"  Xo,"  said  Blunder.  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  would  like  one. 
Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  "Wishing-Gate  ?  " 

"  Wishing-Gate  !  Wishing-Gate  !  "  hooted  the  owl,  very  angry. 
"  "Winks  and  naps  !  how  dare  you  disturb  me  for  such  a  thing  as 
that  1  Do  you  take  me  for  a  mile-stone  !  Follow  your  nose,  sir, 
follow  your  nose  !  "  —  and,  ruffling  up  his  feathers,  the  owl  was 
asleep  again  in  a  moment. 

But  how  could  Blunder  follow  his  nose  1  His  nose  would  turn 
to  the  right,  or  take  him  through  the  woods,  whichever  way  his 
legs  went,  and  "  what  was  the  use  of  asking  the  owl,"  thought 
Blunder,  "  if  this  was  all  1  "  While  he  hesitated,  a  chipmunk 
came  skurrying  down  the  path,  and,  seeing  Blunder,  stopped  short 
with  a  little  squeak. 

"  Good  Mrs.  Chipmunk,"  said  Blunder,  "  can  you  tell  me  the 
way  to  the  WTishing-Gate  '!  " 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  187 

"  I  can't,  indeed,"  answered  the  chipmunk,  politely.  "  What 
with  getting  in  nuts,  and  the  care  of  a  young  family,  I  have  so 
little  time  to  visit  anything  !  But  if  you  will  follow  the  brook, 
you  will  find  an  old  water-sprite  under  a  slanting  stone,  over  which 
the  water  pours  all  day  with  a  noise  like  wabble  !  wabble  !  who,  I 
have  no  doubt,  can  tell  you  all  about  it.  You  will  know  him,  for 
he  does  nothing  but  grumble  about  the  good  old  times  when  a 
brook  would  have  dried  up  before  it  would  have  turned  a  mill- 
wheel." 

So  Blunder  went  on  up  the  brook,  and,  seeing  nothing  of  the 
water-sprite,  or  the  slanting  stone,  was  just  saying  to  himself,  "  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  where  he  is,  —  I  can't  find  it,"  when  he 
spied  a  frog  sitting  on  a  wet  stone. 

"  Mr.  Frog,"  asked  Blunder,  "  can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the 
Wishing-Gate  1 " 

"  I  cannot,"  said  the  frog.  "  I  am  very  sorry,  but  the  fact  is,  I 
am  an  artist.  Young  as  I  am,  my  voice  is  already  remarked  at  our 
concerts,  and  I  devote  myself  so  entirely  to  my  profession  of 
music,  that  I  have  no  time  to  acquire  general  information.  But  in 
a  pine-tree  beyond,  you  will  find  an  old  crow,  who,  I  am  quite 
sure,  can  show  you  the  way,  as  he  is  a  traveller,  and  a  bird  of  an 
inquiring  turn  of  mind." 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  pine  is,  —  I  am  sure  I  can  never  find 
him,"  answered  Blunder,  discontentedly ;  but  still  he  went  on 
up  the  brook,  till,  hot  and  tired,  and  out  of  patience  at  seeing 
neither  crow  nor  pine,  he  sat  down  under  a  great  tree  to  rest. 
There  he  heard  tiny  voices  squabbling. 

"  Get  out !  Go  away,  I  tell  you  !  It  has  been  knock  !  knock  ! 
knock  !  at  my  door  all  day,  till  I  am  tired  out.  First  a  wasp,  and 
then  a  bee,  and  then  another  wasp,  and  then  another  bee,  and  now 
you.     Go  away  !  I  won't  let  another  one  in  to-day  " 

"  But  I  want  my  honey." 

"  And  I  want  my  nap." 

"  I  will  come  in." 

"  You  shaU  not." 


188  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  You  are  a  miserly  old  elf." 

"  And  you  are  a  brute  of  a  bee." 

And  looking  about  him,  Blunder  spied  a  bee,  quarrelling  with  a 
morning-glory  elf,  who  was  shutting  up  the  morning-glory  in  his 
face. 

"  Elf,  do  you  know  which  is  the  way  to  the  Wishing-Gate  ? " 
asked  Blunder. 

"  jSTo,"  said  the  elf,  "  I  don't  know  anything  about  geography. 
I  was  always  too  delicate  to  study.  But  if  you  will  keep  on  in 
this  path,  you  will  meet  the  Dream-man,  coming  down  from  fairy- 
land, with  his  bags  of  dreams  on  his  shoulder ;  and  if  anybody 
can  tell  you  about  the  Wishing-Gate,  he  can." 

"  But  how  can  I  find  him  1 "  asked  Blunder,  more  and  more  im- 
patient. 

•'  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  answered  the  elf,  "  unless  you  should 
look  for  him." 

So  there  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  go  on  ;  and  presently  Blunder 
passed  the  Dream-man,  asleep  under  a  witch-hazel,  with  his  bags 
of  good  and  bad  dreams  laid  over  him  to  keep  him  from  fluttering 
away.  But  Blunder  had  a  habit  of  not  using  his  eyes  ;  for  at  home, 
when  told  to  find  anything,  he  always  said,  "  I  don't  know  where 
it  is,"  or,  "  I  can't  find  it,"  and  then  his  mother  or  sister  went 
straight  and  found  it  for  him.  So  he  passed  the  Dream-man  with- 
out seeing  him,  and  went  on  till  he  stumbled  on  Jack-o' -Lantern. 

"  Can  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  Wishing-Gate  ?  "  said  Blun- 
der. 

•'  Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  answered  Jack,  and,  catching  up  his 
lantern,  set  out  at  once. 

Blunder  followed  close,  but,  in  watching  the  lantern,  he  forgot 
to  look  to  his  feet,  and  fell  into  a  hole  filled  with  black  mud. 

"  I  say  !  the  Wishing-Gate  is  not  down  there,"  called  out  Jack, 
whisking  off  among  the  tree-tops. 

"  But  I  can't  come  up  there,"  whimpered  Blunder. 

"  That  is  not  my  fault,  then,"  answered  Jack,  merrily,  dancing 
out  of  sight. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD   LIFE.  18;i 

0,  a  very  angry  little  boy  was  Blunder,  when  he  clambered  out 
of  the  hole.  "  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  said,  crying  ;  "  I  can't 
find  it,  and  I  '11  go  straight  home." 

Just  then  he  stepped  on  an  old,  moss-grown,  rotten  stump  ;  and 
it  happening,  unluckily,  that  this  rotten  stump  was  a  wood-goblin's 
chimney,  Blunder  fell  through,  headlong,  in  among  the  pots  and 
pans,  in  which  the  goblin's  cook  was  cooking  the  goblin's  supper. 
The  old  goblin,  who  was  asleep  up  stairs,  started  up  in  a  fright  at 
the  tremendous  clash  and  clatter,  and,  finding  that  his  house  was 
not  tumbling  about  his  ears,  as  he  thought  at  first,  stumped  down 
to  the  kitchen  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The  cook  heard  him 
coming,  and  looked  about  her  in  a  fright  to  hide  Blunder. 

"  Quick  !  "  cried  she.  "  If  my  master  catches  you,  he  will 
have  you  in  a  pie.  In  the  next  room  stands  a  pair  of  shoes.  Jump 
into  them,  and  they  will  take  you  up  the  chimney." 

Off  flew  Blunder,  burst  open  the  door,  and  tore  frantically  about 
the  room,  in  one  corner  of  which  stood  the  shoes  ;  hut  of  course 
he  could  not  see  them,  because  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  using 
his  eyes.  "  I  can't  find  them  !  0,  I  can't  find  them  !  "  sobbed 
poor  little  Blunder,  running  back  to  the  cook. 

"  Bun  into  the  closet,"  said  the  cook. 

Blunder  made  a  dash  at  the  window,  but  —  "I  don't  know  where 
it  is,"  he  called  out. 

Clump  !  clump  !  That  was  the  goblin,  half-way  down  the 
stairs. 

"  Goodness  gracious  mercy  me  !  "  exclaimed  cook.  "  He  is  com- 
ing. The  boy  will  be  eaten  in  spite  of  me.  Jump  into  the  meal- 
chest." 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  squeaked  Blunder,  rushing  towards  the  fire- 
place.    "  Where  is  it  1 " 

Clump  !  clump  !  That  was  the  goblin  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  coming  towards  the  kitchen  door. 

"  There  is  an  invisible  cloak  hanging  on  that  peg.  Get  into 
that,"  cried  cook,  quite  beside  herself. 

But  Blunder  could  no  more  see  the  cloak  than  he  could  see  the 


190  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

shoes,  the  closet,  and  the  meal-chest ;  ami  no  doubt  the  goblin, 
whose  hand  was  on  the  latch,  would  have  found  him  prancing 
around  the  kitchen,  and  crying  out,  "  I  can't  find  it,"  but,  fortu- 
nately for  himself,  Blunder  caught  his  foot  in  the  invisible  cloak, 
and  tumbled  down,  pulling  the  cloak  over  him.  There  he  lay, 
hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

"  What  was  all  that  noise  about  1 "  asked  the  goblin,  gruffly,  com 
ing  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Only  my  pans,  master,"  answered  the  cook  ;  and  as  he  could 
see  nothing  amiss,  the  old  goblin  went  grumbling  up  stairs  again, 
while  the  shoes  took  Blunder  up  chimney,  and  landed  him  in  a 
meadow,  safe  enough,  but  so  miserable  !  He  was  cross,  he  was 
disappointed,  he  was  hungry.  It  was  dark,  he  did  not  know  the 
way  home,  and,  seeing  an  old  stile,  he  climbed  up,  and  sat  dowt 
on  the  top  of  it,  for  he  was  too  tired  to  stir.  Just  then  came  along 
the  South  "Wind,  with  his  pockets  crammed  full  of  showers,  and, 
as  he  happened  to  be  going  Blunder's  way,  he  took  Blunder  home  ; 
of  winch  the  boy  was  glad  enough,  only  he  would  have  liked  it 
better  if  the  Wind  woidd  not  have  laughed  all  the  way.  For 
what  would  you  think,  if  you  were  walking  along  a  road  with  a 
fat  old  gentleman,  who  went  chuckling  to  himself,  and  slapping 
his  knees,  and  poking  himself,  till  he  was  purple  in  the  face,  when 
he  would  burst  out  in  a  great  windy  roar  of  laughter  every  other 
minute  1 

"  "What  are  you  laughing  at  \ "  asked  Blunder,  at  last. 

"  At  two  tilings  that  I  saw  in  my  travels,"  answered  the  Wind  ; 
— "  a  hen,  that  died  of  starvation,  sitting  on  an  empty  peck- 
measure  that  stood  in  front  of  a  bushel  of  grain ;  and  a  little  boy 
who  sat  on  the  top  of  the  Wishing-Gate,  and  came  home  because 
he  could  not  find  it." 

"  What  1  what 's  that  ?  "  cried  Blunder  ;  but  just  then  he  found 
himself  at  home.  There  sat  his  fairy  godmother  by  the  fire,  her 
mouse-skin  cloak  hung  up  on  a  peg,  and  toeing  off  a  spider's-silk 
stocking  an  eighth  of  an  inch  long ;  and  though  everybody  else 
cried,  "What  luck?"  and,  "Where  is  the  Wishing-Gate  1 "  she  sat 
mum. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  191 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  answered  Blunder.  "  I  could  n't 
find  it  "  ;  —  and  thereon  told  the  story  of  his  troubles. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  said  his  mother,  kissing  him,  while  his  sister  ran 
to  bring  him  some  bread  and  milk. 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  very  line,"  cried  his  godmother,  pulling  out  her 
needles,  and  rolling  up  her  ball  of  silk ;  "  but  now  hear  my  story. 
There  was  once  a  little  boy  who  must  needs  go  to  the  Wishing- 
Gate,  and  his  fairy  godmother  showed  him  the  road  as  far  as  the 
turn,  and  told  him  to  ask  the  first  owl  he  met  what  to  do  then  ; 
but  this  little  boy  seldom  used  his  eyes,  so  he  passed  the  first  owl, 
and  waked  up  the  wrong  owl ;  so  he  passed  the  water-sprite,  and 
found  only  a  frog ;  so  he  sat  down  under  the  pine-tree,  and  never 
saw  the  crow  ;  so  he  passed  the  Dream-man,  and  ran  after  Jack-o'- 
Lantern  ;  so  he  tumbled  down  the  goblin's  chimney,  and  could  n't 
find  the  shoes  and  the  closet  and  the  chest  and  the  cloak ;  and  so 
he  sat  on  the  top  of  the  Wishmg-Gate  till  the  South  "Wind 
brought  him  home,  and  never  knew  it.  Ugh  !  Bah  !  "  And 
away  went  the  fairy  godmother  up  the  chimney,  in  such  deep  dis- 
gust that  she  did  not  even  stop  for  her  mouse-skin  cloak. 

Louise  E.  Ghollet. 


192  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


STAE-DOLLAES. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl  whose  father  and 
mother  were  dead  ;  and  she  became  so  poor  that  she  had  no 
roof  to  shelter  herself  under,  and  no  bed  to  sleep  in ;  and  at  last 
she  had  nothing  left  but  the  clothes  on  her  back,  and  a  loaf  of 
bread  in  her  hand,  which  a  compassionate  person  had  given  to  her. 

But  she  was  a  good  and  pious  little  girl,  and  when  she  found 
herself  forsaken  by  all  the  world,  she  went  out  into  the  fields, 
trusting  in  God. 

Soon  she  met  a  poor  man,  who  said  to  her,  "  Give  me  something 
to  eat,  for  I  am  so  hungry  ! "  She  handed  him  the  whole  loaf,  and 
with  a  "  God  bless  you  ! "  walked  on  farther. 

Next  she  met  a  little  girl  crying  very  much,  who  said  to  her, 
"  Fray  give  me  something  to  cover  my  head  with,  for  it  is  so 
cold  ! "     So  she  took  off  her  own  bonnet,  and  gave  it  away. 

And  in  a  little  while  she  met  another  child  who  had  no  cloak, 
and  to  her  she  gave  her  own  cloak  !  Then  she  met  another  who 
had  no  dress  on,  and  to  this  one  she  gave  her  own  frock. 

By  that  time  it  was  growing  dark,  and  our  little  girl  entered  a 
forest ;  and  presently  she  met  a  fourth  maiden,  who  begged  some- 
thing, and  to  her  she  gave  her  petticoat.  "  For,"  thought  our 
heroine,  "  it  is  growing  dark,  and  nobody  will  see  me  ;  I  can  give 
away  this." 

And  now  she  had  scarcely  anything  left  to  cover  herself.  But 
just  then  some  of  the  stars  fell  down  in  the  form  of  silver  dollars, 
and  among  them  she  found  a  petticoat  of  the  finest  linen  !  And 
in  that  she  collected  the  star-money,  which  made  her  rich  all  the 
rest  of  her  lifetime. 

Grimms  Household  Tales. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


193 


THE   IMMOETAL   FOUNTAIN. 


IN  ancient  times  two  little  princesses 
lived  in  Scotland,  one  of  ■whom  was 
extremely  beautiful,  and  the  other  dwarf- 
ish, dark  colored,  and  deformed.  One 
was  named  Eose,  and  the  other  Mari- 
The  sisters  did  not  live  happily 
together.  Marion  hated  Eose  because 
she  was  handsome  and  everybody 
praised  her.  She  scowled,  and  her 
face  absolutely  grew  black,  when  any- 
body asked  her  how  her  pretty  lit- 
tle sister  Eose  did ;  and  once  she  was 
so  wicked  as  to  cut  off  all  her  glossy 
golden  hair,  and  throw  it  in  the  fire. 
Poor  Eose  cried  bitterly  about  it,  but 
she  did  not  scold,  or  strike  her  sister ; 
for  she  was  an  amiable,  gentle  little 
being  as  ever  lived.  No  wonder  all 
the  family  and  all  the  neighbors  d'is- 


"**%&ffi3&Z! 


.194  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

liked  Marion,  and  no  wonder  her  face  grew  uglier  and  uglier 
every  day.  The  Scotch  used  to  be  a  very  superstitious  people ; 
and  they  believed  the  infant  Rose  had  been  blessed  by  the  Fairies, 
to  whom  she  owed  her  extraordinary  beauty  and  exceeding  good- 
ness. 

Not  far  from  the  castle  where  the  princesses  resided  was  a  deep 
grotto,  said  to  lead  to  the  Palace  of  Beauty,  where  the  queen  of 
the  Fairies  held  her  court.  Some  said  Rose  had  fallen  asleep  there 
one  day,  when  she  had  grown  tired  of  chasing  a  butterfly,  and 
that  the  queen  had  dipped  her  in  an  immortal  fountain,  from  which 
she  had  risen  with  the  beauty  of  an  angel.*  Marion  often  asked 
questions  about  this  story ;  but  Rose  always  replied  that  she  had 
been  forbidden  to  speak  of  it.  When  she  saw  any  uncommonly 
brilliant  bird  or  butterfly,  she  woidd  sometimes  exclaim,  "  0, 
how  much  that  looks  like  Fairy  Land !  "  But  when  asked  what 
she  knew  about  Fairy  Land  she  blushed,  and  would  not  an- 
swer. 

Marion  thought  a  great  deal  about  this.  "  Why  cannot  I  go  to 
the  Palace  of  Beauty1?  "  thought  she  ;  "and  why  may  not  I  bathe 
in  the  Immortal  Fountain  '?  " 

One  summer's  noon,  when  all  was  still  save  the  faint  twittering 
of  the  birds  and  the  lazy  hum  of  the  insects,  Marion  entered  the 
deep  grotto.  She  sat  down  on  a  bank  of  moss  ;  the  air  around 
her  was  as  fragrant  as  if  it  came  from  a  bed  of  violets ;  and  with 
the  sound  of  far-off  music  dying  on  her  ear,  she  fell  into  a  gentle 
slumber.  When  she  awoke,  it  was  evening  ;  and  she  found  herself 
in  a  small  hall,  where  opal  pillars  supported  a  rainbow  roof,  the 
bright  reflection  of  which  rested  on  crystal  walls,  and  a  golden 
floor  inlaid  with  pearls.  All  around,  between  the  opal  pillars, 
stood  the  tiniest  vases  of  pure  alabaster,  in  which  grew  a  multi- 
tude of  brilliant  and  fragrant  flowers ;  some  of  them,  twining 
around  the  pillars,  were  lost  in  the  floating  rainbow  above.  The 
whole  of  this  scene  of  beauty  was  lighted  by  millions  of  fire-flies, 

*  There  was  a  superstition  that  whoever  slept  on  fairy  ground  was  earned  away 
by  the  fairies. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  195 

glittering  about  like  wandering  stars.  While  Marion  was  wonder- 
ing at  all  this,  a  little  figure  of  rare  loveliness  stood  before  her. 
Her  robe  was  of  green  and  gold ;  her  flowing  gossamer  mantle 
was  caught  upon  one  shoulder  with  a  pearl,  and  in  her  hair  was  a 
solitary  star,  composed  of  five  diamonds,  each  no  bigger  than  a 
pin's  point,  and  thus  she  sung  :  — 

The  Fairy  Queen 

Hath  rarely  seen 
Ci'eature  of  earthly  mould 

Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 
Inlaid  with  shining  gold. 

Mortal,  all  thou  seest  is  fair  ; 

Quick  thy  purposes  declare  ! 

As  she  concluded,  the  song  was  taken  up,  and  thrice  repeated 
by  a  multitude  of  soft  voices  in  the  distance.  It  seemed  as  if 
birds  and  insects  joined  in  the  chorus,  —  the  clear  voice  of  the 
thrush  was  distinctly  heard  ;  the  cricket  kept  time  with  his  tiny 
cymbal ;  and  ever  and  anon,  between  the  pauses,  the  sound  of  a 
distant  cascade  was  heard,  whose  waters  fell  in  music. 

All  these  delightful  sounds  died  away,  and  the  Queen  of  the 
Fairies  stood  patiently  awaiting  Marion's  answer.  Courtesying  low, 
and  with  a  trembling  voice,  the  little  maiden  said,  — 

"Will  it  please  your  Majesty  to  make  me  as  handsome  as  my 
sister  Eose." 

The  queen  smded.  "  I  will  grant  your  request,"  said  she,  "  if 
you  will  promise  to  fulfil  all  the  conditions  I  propose." 

Marion  eagerly  promised  that  she  would. 

"  The  Immortal  Fountain,"  replied  the  queen,  "  is  on  the  top 
of  a  high,  steep  hill ;  at  four  different  places  Fairies  are  stationed 
around  it,  who  guard  it  with  their  wands.  None  can  pass  them 
except  those  who  obey  my  orders.  Go  home  now  :  for  one  week 
speak  no  ungentle  word  to  your  sister ;  at  the  end  of  that  time 
come  again  to  the  grotto." 

Marion  went  home  light  of  heart.  Rose  was  in  the  garden, 
watering  the  flowers  ;  and  the  first  thing  Marion  observed  was  that 


196  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

her  sister's  sunny  hair  had  suddenly  grown  as  long  and  beautiful 
as  it  had  ever  been.  The  sight  made  her  angry  ;  and  she  was  just 
about  to  snatch  the  water-pot  from  her  hand  with  an  angry  expres- 
sion, when  she  remembered  the  Fairy,  and  passed  into  the  castle 
in  silence. 

The  end  of  the  week  arrived,  and  Marion  had  faithfully  kept 
her  promise.  Again  she  went  to  the  grotto.  The  queen  was  feast- 
ing when  she  entered  the  hall.  The  bees  brought  honeycomb 
and  deposited  it  on  the  small  rose-colored  shells  which  adorned 
the  crystal  table  ;  gaudy  butterflies  floated  about  the  head  of  the 
queen,  and  fanned  her  with  their  wings ;  the  cucullo,  and  the 
lantern-fly  stood  at  her  side  to  afford  her  light ;  a  large  diamond 
beetle  formed  her  splendid  footstool,  and  when  she  had  supped, 
a  dew-drop,  on  the  petal  of  a  violet,  was  brought  for  her  royal 
fingers. 

When  Marion  entered,  the  diamond  sparkles  on  the  wings  of 
the  Fairies  faded,  as  they  always  did  in  the  presence  of  anything 
not  perfectly  good ;  and  in  a  few  moments  all  the  queen's  attend- 
ants vanished,  singing  as  they  went :  — 

The  Fairy  Queen 

Hath  rarely  seen 
Creature  of  earthly  mould 

Within  her  door, 

On  pearly  floor, 
Inlaid  with  shining  gold. 

"  Mortal,  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  promise  1"  asked  the  queen 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  maiden. 

"  Then  follow  me." 

Marion  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  away  they  went  over  beds 
of  violets  and  mignonette.  The  birds  warbled  above  their  heads, 
butterflies  cooled  the  air,  and  the  gurgling  of  many  fountains  came 
with  a  refreshing  sound.  Presently  they  came  to  the  hill,  on  the 
top  of  which  was  the  Immortal  Fountain.  Its  foot  was  surrounded 
by  a  band  of  Fairies,  clothed  in  green  gossamer,  with  their  ivory 
wands  crossed,  to  bar  the  ascent.     The   queen  waved  her  wand 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  197 

over  them,  and  immediately  they  stretched  their  thin  wings  and 
flew  away.  The  hill  was  steep,  and  far,  far  up  they  went ;  and 
the  air  became  more  and  more  fragrant,  and  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly they  heard  the  sound  of  waters  falling  in  music.  At  length 
they  were  stopped  by  a  band  of  Fairies  clothed  in  blue,  with  their 
silver  wands  crossed. 

"  Here,"  said  the  queen,  "  our  journey  must  end.  You  can  go 
no  farther  until  you  have  fulfilled  the  orders  I  shall  give  you.  Go 
home  now ;  for  one  month  do  by  your  sister  in  all  respects  as  you 
would  wish  her  to  do  by  you,  were  you  Rose  and  she  Marion." 

Marion  promised,  and  departed.  She  found  the  task  harder 
than  the  first  had  been.  She  could  not  help  speaking  ;  but  when 
Eose  asked  her  for  any  of  her  playthings,  she  found  it  difficult  to 
give  them  gently  and  affectionately,  instead  of  pushing  them  along. 
When  Eose  talked  to  her,  she  wanted  to  go  away  in  silence  ;  and 
when  a  pocket-mirror  was  found  in  her  sister's  room,  broken  into 
a  thousand  pieces,  she  felt  sorely  tempted  to  conceal  that  she  did 
the  mischief.  But  she  was  so  anxious  to  be  made  beautiful,  that 
she  did  as  she  would  be  done  by. 

All  the  household  remarked  how  Marion  had  changed.  "  I  love 
her  dearly,"  said  Eose,  "  she  is  so  good  and  amiable." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  a  dozen  voices. 

Marion  blushed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure. 
"  How  pleasant  it  is  to  be  loved  !  "  thought  she. 

At  the  end  of  the  month,  she  went  to  the  grotto.  The  Fairies 
in  blue  lowered  their  silver  wands  and  flew  away.  They  travelled 
on  ;  the  path  grew  steeper  and  steeper ;  but  the  fragrance  of  the 
atmosphere  was  redoubled,  and  more  distinctly  came  the  sound 
of  the  waters  falling  in  music.  Their  course  was  stayed  by  a  troop 
of  Fairies  in  rainbow  robes,  and  silver  wands  tipped  with  gold. 
In  face  and  form  they  were  far  more  beautiful  than  anything 
Marion  had  yet  seen. 

"  Here  we  must  pause,"  said  the  queen ;  "  this  boundary  you 
cannot  yet  pass." 

"  Why  not]"  asked  the  impatient  Marion. 


198  GUILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  Because  those  must  lie  very  pure  who  pass  the  rainbow  Fai- 
ries," replied  the  queen. 

"  Am  I  not  very  pure  ? "  said  the  maiden  ;  "  all  the  folks  in 
the  castle  tell  me  how  good  I  have  grown." 

"  Mortal  eyes  see  only  the  outside,"  answered  the  queen,  "  but 
those  who  pass  the  rainbow  Fairies  must  be  pure  in  thought,  as 
well  as  in  action.  Return  home  ;  for  three  months  never  indulge, 
an  envious  or  wicked  thought.  You  shall  then  have  a  sight  of 
the  Immortal  Fountain."  Marion  was  sad  at  heart ;  for  she  knew 
how  many  envious  thoughts  and  wrong  wishes  she  had  suffered 
to  gain  power  over  her. 

At  the  end  of  three  months,  she  again  visited  the  Palace  of 
Beauty.  The  queen  did  not  smile  when  she  saw  her ;  but  in 
silence  led  the  way  to  the  Immortal  Fountain.  The  green  Fairies 
and  the  blue  Fairies  flew  away  as  they  approached  ;  but  the  rain- 
bow Fairies  bowed  low  to  the  queen,  and  kept  their  gold-tipped 
wands  firmly  crossed.  Marion  saw  that  the  silver  specks  on  their 
wings  grew  dim ;  and  she  burst  into  tears.  "  I  knew,"  said  the 
queen,  "  that  you  could  not  pass  this  boundary.  Envy  has  been 
in  your  heart,  and  you  have  not  driven  it  away.  Your  sister  has 
been  ill,  and  in  your  heart  you  wished  that  she  might  die,  or  rise 
from  the  bed  of  sickness  deprived  of  her  beauty.  Be  not  dis- 
couraged ;  you  have  been  several  years  indulging  in  wrong  feel- 
ings, and  you  must  not  wonder  that  it  takes  many  months  to 
drive  them  away." 

Marion  was  very  sad  as  she  wended  her  way  homeward.  When 
Rose  asked  her  what  was  the  matter,  she  told  her  she  wanted  to 
be  very  good,  but  she  could  not.  "  When  I  want  to  be  good,  I 
read  my  Bible  and  pray,"  said  Rose  ;  "  and  I  find  God  helps  me 
to  be  good."  Then  Marion  prayed  that  God  would  help  her  to  be 
pure  in  thought ;  and  when  wicked  feelings  rose  in  her  heart,  she 
read  her  Bible,  and  they  went  away. 

When  she  again  visited  the  Palace  of  Beauty,  the  queen  smiled, 
and  touched  her  playfully  with  the  wand,  then  led  her  away  to 
the  Immortal  Fountain.     The  silver  specks  on  the  wings  of  the 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  199 

rainbow  Fairies  shone  bright  as  she  approached  them,  and  they 
lowered  their  wands,  and  sung,  as  they  new  away  :  — 

Mortal,  pass  on, 

Till  the  goal  is  won,  — 

For  such,  I  ween, 

Is  the  will  of  the  queen,  — 

Pass  on  !  pass  on  ! 

And  now  every  footstep  was  on  flowers,  that  yielded  beneath 
their  feet,  as  if  their  pathway  had  been  upon  a  cloud.  The  deli- 
cious fragrance  could  almost  be  felt,  yet  it  did  not  oppress  the 
senses  with  its  heaviness  ;  and  loud,  clear,  and  liquid  came  the 
sound  of  the  waters  as  they  fell  in  music.  And  now  the  cascade 
is  seen  leaping  and  sparkling  over  crystal  rocks  ;  a  rainbow  arch 
rests  above  it,  like  a  perpetual  halo ;  the  spray  falls  in  pearls, 
and  forms  fantastic  foliage  about  the  margin  of  the  Fountain.  It 
has  touched  the  webs  woven  among  the  grass,  and  they  have  be- 
come pearl-embroidered  cloaks  for  the  Fairy  queen.  Deep  and 
silent,  below  the  foam,  is  the  Immortal  Fountain  !  Its  amber- 
colored  waves  flow  over  a  golden  bed ;  and  as  the  Fairies  bathe  in 
it,  the   diamonds  on  their  hair  glance  like  sunbeams  on  the  waters. 

"  0,  let  me  bathe  in  the  fountain  !  "  cried  Marion,  clasping  her 
hands  in  delight.  "  Not  yet,"  said  the  queen.  "  Behold  the 
purple  Fairies  with  golden  wands  that  guard  its  brink  !  "  Marion 
looked,  and  saw  beings  lovelier  than  any  her  eye  had  ever  rested 
on.  "  You  cannot  pass  them  yet,"  said  the  queen.  "  Go  home  ; 
for  one  year  drive  away  all  evil  feelings,  not  for  the  sake  of  bath- 
ing in  this  Fountain,  but  because  goodness  is  lovely  and  desirable 
for  its  own  sake.    Purify  the  inward  motive,  and  your  work  is  done." 

This  was  the  hardest  task  of  all.  For  she  had  been  willing  to 
be  good,  not  because  it  was  right  to  be  good,  but  because  she 
wished  to  be  beautiful.  Three  times  she  sought  the  grotto,  and 
three  times  she  left  in  tears  ;  for  the  golden  specks  grew  dim  at 
her  approach,  and  the  golden  wands  were  still  crossed,  to  shut  her 
from  the  Immortal  Fountain.  The  fourth  time  she  prevailed. 
The  purple  Fairies  lowered  their  wands,  singing,  — 


200  CHILI)  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

Thou  hast  scaled  the  mountain, 

Go,  bathe  in  the  Fountain  ; 

Rise  fair  to  the  sight 

As  an  angel  of  light ; 

Go,  bathe  in  the  Fountain  ! 

Marion  was  about  to  plunge  in,  but  the  queen  touched  her, 
saying,  "  Look  in  the  mirror  of  the  waters.  Art  thou  not  already 
as  beautiful  as  heart  can  wish  1 " 

Marion  looked  at  herself,  and  saw  that  her  eye  sparkled  with 
new  lustre,  that  a  bright  color  shone  through  her  cheeks,  and 
dimples  played  sweetly  about  her  mouth.  "  I  have  not  touched 
the  Immortal  Fountain,"  said  she,  turning  in  surprise  to  the  queen. 
"  True,"  replied  the  queen,  "  but  its  waters  have  been  within  your 
soul.  Know  that  a  pure  heart  and  a  clear  conscience  are  the  only 
immortal  fountains  of  beauty." 

When  Marion  returned,  Eose  clasped  her  to  her  bosom,  and 
kissed  her  fervently.  "  I  know  all,"  said  she,  "  though  I  have 
not  asked  you  a  question.  I  have  been  in  Fairy  Land,  disguised  as 
a  bird,  and  I  have  watched  all  your  steps.  When  you  first  went 
to  the  grotto,  I  begged  the  queen  to  grant  your  wish." 

Ever  after  that  the  sisters  lived  lovingly  together.  It  was  the 
remark  of  every  one,  "  How  handsome  Marion  has  grown !  The 
ugly  scowl  has  departed  from  her  face  ;  and  the  light  of  her  eye 
is  so  mild  and  pleasant,  and  her  mouth  looks  so  smiling  and  good- 
natured,  that  to  my  taste,  I  declare,  she  is  as  handsome  as  Eose." 

L.  Maria  Child. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  201 


THE   BIED'S-NEST   IN   THE   MOON. 

I  LOVE  to  go  to  the  Moon.  I  never  shake  off  sublunary  cares 
and  sorrows  so  completely  as  when  I  am  fairly  landed  on  that 
beautiful  island.*  A  man  in  the  Moon  may  see  Castle  Island,  the 
city  of  Boston,  the  ships  in  the  harbor,  the  silver  waters  of  our 
little  archipelago,  all  lying,  as  it  were,  at  his  feet.  There  you  may 
be  at  once  social  and  solitary,  —  social,  because  you  see  the  busy 
world  before  you  ;  and  solitary  because  there  is  not  a  single  crea- 
ture on  the  island,  except  a  few  feeding  cows,  to  disturb  your  re- 
pose. 

I  was  there  last  summer,  and  was  surveying  the  scene  with  my 
usual  emotions,  when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  whirring 
wings  of  a  little  sparrow,  that,  in  walking,  I  had  frightened  from 
her  nest. 

This  bird,  as  is  well  known,  always  builds  its  nest  on  the 
ground.  I  have  seen  one,  often,  in  the  middle  of  a  cornhill,  curi- 
ously placed  in  the  centre  of  the  five  green  stalks,  so  that  it  was 
difficult,  at  hoeing  time,  to  dress  the  hill  without  burying  the 
nest. 

This  sparrow  had  built  hers  beneath  a  little  tuft  of  grass  more 
rich  and  thickset  than  the  rest  of  the  herbage  around  it.  I  cast 
a  careless  glance  at  the  nest,  saw  the  soft  down  that  lined  it,  the 
four  little  speckled  eggs  which  enclosed  the  parents'  hope.  I 
marked  the  multitude  of  cows  that  were  feeding  around  it,  one 
tread  of  whose  cloven  feet  would  crush  both  bird  and  progeny  into 
ruin. 

I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the  dangerous  condition  to  which  the 
creature  had  committed  her  most  tender  hopes.     A  cow  is  seeking 

*  Moon  Island,  ill  Boston  harbor. 


202  CHILD   LIFE   W   PliOSE. 

a  bito  of  grass  ;  sho  steps  aside  to  gratify  that  appetite  ;  she  treads 
on  the  nest,  and  destroys  the  offspring  of  the  defenceless  bird. 

As  I  eamo  away  from  the  island,  I  reflected  that  this  bird's  situ- 
ation, in  her  humble,  defenceless  nest,  might  be  no  unapt  emblem 
of  man  in  this  precarious  world.  What  are  diseases,  in  their  count- 
less forms,  accidents  by  flood  and  fire,  the  seductions  of  tempta- 
tion, and  even  some  human  beings  themselves,  but  so  many  huge 
cows  feeding  around  our  nest,  and  ready,  every  moment,  to  crush 
our  dearest  hopes,  with  the  most  careless  indifference,  beneath  their 
brutal  tread  1 

Sometimes,  as  we  sit  at  home,  we  can  see  the  calamity  coming 
at  a  distance.  We  hear  the  breatliing  of  the  monster  ;  we  mark 
its  great  wavering  path,  now  looking  towards  us  in  a  direct  line, 
now  capriciously  turning  for  a  moment  aside.  We  see  the  swing 
of  its  dreadful  horns,  the  savage  rapacity  of  its  brutal  appetite  ; 
we  behold  it  approaching  nearer  and  nearer,  and  it  passes  within  a 
hairbreadth  of  our  ruin,  leaving  us  to  the  sad  reflection  that  an- 
other and  another  are  still  behind. 

Poor  bird  !     Our  situations  are  exactly  alike. 

The  other  evening  I  walked  into  the  chamber  where  my  chil- 
dren were  sleeping.  There  was  Willie,  with  the  clothes  half  kicked 
down,  his  hands  thrown  carelessly  over  his  head,  tired  with  play, 
now  resting  in  repose  ;  there  was  Jamie  with  his  balmy  breath  and 
rosy  cheeks,  sleeping  and  looking  like  innocence  itself.  There  was 
Bessie,  who  has  just  begun  to  prattle,  and  runs  daily  with  tottering 
steps  and  lisping  voice  to  ask  her  father  to  toss  her  into  the  air. 

As  I  looked  upon  these  sleeping  innocents,  I  could  not  but  re- 
gard them  as  so  many  little  birds  which  I  must  fold  under  my 
wing,  and  protect,  if  possible,  in  security  in  my  nest. 

But  when  I  thought  of  the  huge  cows  that  were  feeding  around 
them,  the  ugly  hoofs  that  might  crush  them  into  ruin,  in  short, 
when  I  remembered  the  bircTs-nest  in  the  Moon,  I  trembled  and 
wept. 

But  why  weep  ?  Is  there  not  a  special  providence  in  the  fall  of 
a  sparrow  1 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD    LIFE. 


203 


It  is  very  possible  that  the  nest  which  I  saw  was  not  in  so  dan- 
gerous a  situation  as  it  appeared  to  be.  Perhaps  some  providential 
instinct  led  the  bird  to  build  her  fragile  house  in  the  ranker  grass, 
which  the  kine  never  bite,  and,  of  course,  on  which  they  would 
not  be  likely  to  tread.  Perhaps  some  kind  impulse  may  guide 
that  species  so  as  not  to  tread  even  on  a  bird's-nest. 

There  is  a  merciful  God,  whose  care  and  protection  extend  over 
all  his  works,  who  takes  care  of  the  sparrow's  children  and  of 
mine.      The  very  hairs  of  our  head  are  all  numhered. 

New  England  Magazine. 


20-4  CHILD  LIFE  IN  P1MSE. 


DREAM-CHILDREN:   A  REVERY. 

CHILDREN  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders  when 
they  were  children  ;  to  stretch  their  imagination  to  the  con- 
ception of  a  traditionary  great-uncle  or  grandame,  whom  they 
never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept  about 
me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their  great-grandmother  Field, 
who  lived  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times  bigger 
than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived)  which  had  been  the  scene 
— so,  at  least,  it  was  generally  believed  in  that  part  of  the  country — 
of  the  tragic  incidents  which  the)'  had  lately  become  familiar  with 
from  the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be 
seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great 
hall,  the  whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Redbreasts  !  till  a  foolish 
rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern  in- 
vention in  its  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it.  —  Here  Alice  put  out 
one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  upbraiding. 
Then  I  went  on  to  say  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  was,  how  beloved  and  respected  by  everybody, 
though  she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but 
had  only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet,  in  some  respects,  she  might  be 
said  to  be  the  mistress  of  it  too),  committed  to  her  by  the  owner, 
who  preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable  mansion 
which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoining  county ;  but 
still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept 
up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which 
afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its 
old  ornaments  stripped  and  carriu4  away  to  the  owner's  other 
house,  where  they  were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some 
one  were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  205 

Abbey,   and   stick  them  up  in   Lady   C.'s    tawdry  gilt   drawing- 
room. 

Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  That  would  be  foolish  in- 
deed." And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral 
was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the 
gentry,  too,  of  the  neighborhood  for  many  miles  round,  to  show 
their  respect  for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a  good 
and  religious  woman ;  so  good,  indeed,  that  she  knew  all  the 
Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament  besides.  — 
Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands. 

Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  once  was  ;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was 
esteemed  the  best  dancer,  —  here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played 
an  involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave,  it  desisted, 
—  the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease, 
called  a  cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain  ;  but  it 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop,  but  they 
were  still  upright,  because  she  was  so  good  and  religious. 

Then  I  told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep .  by  herself  in  a  lone 
chamber  of  the  great  lone  house ;  and  how  she  believed  that  an 
apparition  of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up 
and  down  the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept,  but  she  said 
"  those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm  "  ;  and  how  frightened  I 
used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  with  me, 
because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  religious  as  she,  —  and  yet  I 
never  saw  the  infants.  —  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eyebrows  and 
tried  to  look  courageous. 

Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having 
us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  particular  used 
to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of 
the  twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of  Rome,  till  the  old 
marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again,  or  I  to  be  turned  into 
marble  with  them  ;  how  I  never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about 
that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out 
hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with  the 


206 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


gilding  almost  rubbed  out,  —  sometimes  in  the  spacious  old- 
fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when 
now  and  then  a  solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me,  —  and 
how  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without 
my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because  they  were  forbidden  fruit, 
unless  now  and  then,  —  and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in 
strolling  about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew-trees,  or 
the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir-apples,  which 
were  good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at,  —  or  in  lying  about  upon 
the  fresh  grass  with  all  the  fine   garden    smells   around   me,  — 


or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself 
ripening  too,  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that  grateful 
warmth,  —  or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in 
the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a 
great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water  in  sdent  state, 
as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  friskings  ;  I  had  more  pleas- 
ure in  these  busy-idle  diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of 
peaches,  nectarines,  oranges,  and  such-like  common  baits  of  chil- 
dren. —  Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of 
grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing 
with  her,  and  both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the 
present  as  irrelevant. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  207 

Then,  in  a  somewhat  more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though 
their  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet 
in  an   especial  manner  she   might  be   said  to  love  their  uncle, 

John  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a  youth, 

and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us ;  and  instead  of  moping  about 
in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the  most 
mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than 
themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county  in  a 
morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out ;  and 
yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much 
spirit  to  be  always  pent  up  within  their  boundaries  ;  and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to  the 
admiration  of  everybody,  but  of  their  great-grandmother  Field 
most  especially ;  and  how  he  used  to  carry  me  upon  his  back,  when 
I  was  a  lame-footed  boy,  —  for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  me,  — 
many  a  mile,  when  I  could  not  walk  for  pain  ;  and  how  in  after 
life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make 
allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient  and  in  pain,  nor 
remember  sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I 
was  lame-footed ;  and  how  when  he  died,  though  lie  had  not  been 
dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while  ago,  such 
a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death ;  and  how  I  bore  his 
death,  as  I  thought,  pretty  well  at  first,  but  afterwards  it  haunted  and 
haunted  me  ;  and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some 
do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed 
him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then  how  much  I  had  loved 
him.  I  missed  his  kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished 
him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  we  quarrelled 
sometimes),  rather  than  not  have  him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy 
without  him  as  he  their  poor  uncle  must  have  been  when  the 
doctor  took  off  his  limb. 

Here  the  children  fell  a-crying,  and  asked  if  their  little  mourning 
which  they  had  on  was  not  for  their  Uncle  John  ;  and  they  looked 
up,  and  prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them 
some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother. 


208  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

Then  I  told  how,  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  some- 
times   in    despair,  yet   persisting   ever,    I   courted    the   lair  Alice 

W n  ;  and,  as  much  as  children  could  understand,  I  explained  to 

them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial  meant  in  maidens, 
—  when  suddenly,  turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice 
looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of  representment 
that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of  them  stood  there  before  me,  01 
whose  that  bright  hair  was  ;  and  while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the 
children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  re- 
ceding, till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in 
the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely  impressed 
upon  me  the  effects  of  speech  :  "  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee, 
nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum 
father.  We  are  nothing ;  less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We 
are  only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious 
shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before  we  have  existence  and  a 
name " ;  —  and  immediately  awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly 
seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with 

the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side,  —  but  John  L 

(or  James  Elia)  was  gone  forever. 

Charles  Lamb. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


209 


THE   UGLY   DUCKLING. 


IT  was  beautiful  in  the  country  ;  it  was  summer-time ;  the 
wheat  was  yellow  ;  the  oats  were  green,  the  hay  was  stacked 
up  in  the  green  meadows,  and  the  stork  paraded  about  on  his  long 
red  legs,  discoursing  in  Egyptian,  which  language  he  had  learned 
from  his  mother.  The  fields  and  meadows  were  skirted  by  thick 
woods,  and  a  deep  lake,  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  woods.  Yes,  it 
was  indeed  beautiful  in  the  country  !  The  sunshine  fell  warmly  on 
an  old  mansion,  surrounded  by  deep  canals,  and  from  the  walls 
down  to  the  water's  edge  there  grew  large  burdock-leaves,  so  high 
that  children  could  stand  upright  among  them  without  being  per- 
ceived. This  place  was  as  wild  and  unfrequented  as  the  thickest 
part  of  the  wood,  and  on  that  account  a  duck  had  chosen  to  make 
her  nest  there.  She  was  sitting  on  her  eggs  ;  but  the  pleasure  she 
had  felt  at  first  was  now  almost  gone,  because  she  had  been  there 
so  long,  and  had  so  few  visitors,  for  the  other  ducks  preferred 
swimming  on  the  canals  to  sitting  among  the  burdock-leaves  gos- 
siping with  her. 

At   last  the  eggs  cracked,  one  after  another,  "  Tchick  !  tchick  ! " 
All  the  eggs  were  alive,  and  one  little  head  after  another  peered 


210  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

forth.  "  Quack,  quack  !  "  said  the  Duck,  and  all  got  up  as  well 
as  they  could  ;  they  peeped  about  from  under  the  green  leaves  ; 
and  as  green  is  good  for  the  eyes,  the  mother  let  them  look  as  long 
as  they  pleased. 

"  How  large  the  world  is  !  "  said  the  little  ones,  for  they  found 
their  present  situation  very  different  from  their  former  confined 
one,  while  yet  in  the  egg-shells. 

"  Do  you  imagine  this  to  be  the  whole  of  the  world  1  v  said  the 
mother ;  "  it  extends  far  beyond  the  other  side  of  the  garden  to 
the  pastor's  field  ;  but  I  have  never  been  there.  Are  you  all 
here  1 "  And  then  she  got  up.  "  Xo,  not  all,  but  the  largest  egg 
is  still  here.  How  long  will  this  last  ?  I  am  so  weary  of  it  !  " 
And  then  she  sat  down  again. 

"  "Well,  and  how  are  you  getting  on?"  asked  an  old  Duck,  who 
had  come  to  pay  her  a  visit. 

"  This  one  egg  keeps  me  so  long  !  "  said  the  mother,  "  it  will  not 
break.  But  you  should  see  the  others  !  they  are  the  prettiest  little 
ducklings  I  have  seen  in  all  my  days  ;  they  are  all  like  their 
father,  —  the  good-for-nothing  fellow,  he  has  not  been  to  visit  me 
once  !  " 

"  Let  me  see  the  egg  that  will  not  break  ! "  said  the  old  Duck  ; 
"  depeud  upon  it,  it  is  a  turkey's  egg.  I  was  cheated  in  the  same 
way  once  myself,  and  I  had  such  trouble  with  the  young  ones ;  for 
thej'  were  afraid  of  the  water,  and  I  could  not  get  them  there.  I 
called  and  scolded,  but  it  was  all  of  no  use.  But  let  me  see  the 
egg.  All,  yes !  to  be  sure,  that  is  a  turkey's  egg.  Leave  it,  and 
teach  the  other  little  ones  to  swim." 

"  I  will  sit  on  it  a  little  longer,"  said  the  Duck.  "  I  have  been 
sitting  so  long  that  I  may  as  well  spend  the  harvest  here." 

"  It  is  no  business  of  mine,"  said  the  old  Duck,  and  away  she 
waddled. 

The  great  egg  burst  at  last.  "  Tchick  !  tchick  !  "  said  the  little 
one,  and  out  it  tumbled  ;  but  0,  how  large  and  ugly  it  was  ! 
The  Duck  looked  at  it.  "  That  is  a  great,  strong  creature,"  said 
she ;  "  none  of  the  others  are  at  all  like  it.     Can  it  be  a  voting 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  211 

turkey-cock  1  Well,  we  shall  soon  find  out ;  it  must  go  into  the 
water,  though  I  push  it  in  myself." 

The  next  day  there  was  delightful  weather,  and  the  sun  shone 
warmly  upon  the  green  leaves  when  Mother  Duck  with  all  her 
family  went  down  to  the  canal ;  plump  she  went  into  the  water. 
"  Quack,  quack ! "  cried  she,  and  one  duckling  after  another 
jumped  in.  The  water  closed  over  their  heads,  but  all  came  up 
again,  and  swam  together  in  the  pleasantest  manner ;  their  legs 
moved  without  effort.     All  were  there,  even  the  ugly,  gray  one. 

"  No  !  it  is  not  a  turkey,"  said  the  old  Duck  ;  "  only  see  how 
prettUy  it  moves  its  legs  !  how  upright  it  hold  itself !  it  is  my  own 
child  :  it  is  also  really  very  pretty,  when  one  looks  more  closely  at  it. 
Quack  !  quack  !  now  come  with  me,  I  will  take  you  into  the  world, 
introduce  you  in  the  duck-yard ;  but  keep  close  to  me,  or  some 
one  may  tread  on  you  ;  and  beware  of  the  cat." 

So  they  came  into  the  duck-yard.  There  was  a  horrid  noise ; 
two  families  were  quarrelling  about  the  remains  of  an  eel,  which 
in  the  end  was  secured  by  the  cat. 

"  See,  my  children,  such  is  the  way  of  the  world,"  said  the 
Mother  Duck,  wiping  her  beak,  for  she,  too,  was  fond  of  eels. 
"  Now  use  your  legs,"  said  she  ;  "  keep  together,  and  bow  to  the  old 
duck  you  see  yonder.  She  is  the  most  distinguished  of  all  the  fowls 
present,  and  is  of  Spanish  blood,  which  accounts  for  her  dignified 
appearance  and  manners.  And  look,  she  has  a  red  rag  on  her  leg  ! 
that  is  considered  extremely  handsome,  and  is  the  greatest  distinc- 
tion a  duck  can  have.  Don't  turn  your  feet  inwards  ;  a  well-edu- 
cated duckling  always  keeps  his  legs  far  apart,  like  his  father  and 
mother,  just  so,  —  look  !  now  bow  your  necks,  and  say,  '  quack.'  " 

And  they  did  as  they  were  told.  But  the  other  ducks  who  were 
in  the  yard  looked  at  them,  and  said  aloud,  "  Only  see  !  now  we 
have  another  brood, — as  if  there  were  not  enough  of  us  already; 
and  fie  !  how  ugly  that  one  is  !  we  will  not  endure  it."  And  imme- 
diately one  of  the  ducks  flew  at  him,  and  bit  him  in  the  neck. 

"  Leave  him  alone,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  he  is  doing  no  one  any 
harm." 


2]  2  CHILD  LIFE  IN  MUSE. 

"  Yes,  but  lie  is  so  large,  and  so  strange-looking,  and  therefore 
he  shall  be  teased." 

"  These  are  line  children  that  our  good  mother  has,"  said  the  old 
Duck  with  the  red  rag  on  her  leg.  "  All  are  pretty  except  one, 
and  that  has  not  turned  out  well ;  I  almost  wish  it  could  be  hatched 
over  again." 

"  That  cannot  be,  please  your  highness,"  said  the  mother.  "  Cer- 
tainly he  is  not  handsome,  but  he  is  a  very  good  child,  and  swims 
as  well  as  the  others,  indeed  rather  better.  I  think  he  will  grow 
like  the  others  all  in  good  time,  and  perhaps  will  look  smaller. 
He  stayed  so  long  in  the  egg-shell,  that  is  the  cause  of  the  differ- 
ence "  ;  and  she  scratched  the  Duckling's  neck,  and  stroked  his 
whole  body.  "  Besides,"  added  she,  "  he  is  a  drake  ;  I  think  he 
will  be  very  strong,  therefore  it  does  not  matter  so  much ;  he  will 
fight  his  way  through." 

"  The  other  ducks  are  very  pretty,"  said  the  old  Duck.  "  Pray 
make  yourselves  at  home,  and  if  you  find  an  eel's  head  you  can 
bring  it  to  me." 

And  accordingly  they  made  themselves  at  home. 

But  the  poor  little  Duckling  who  had  come  last  out  of  its  egg- 
shell, and  who  was  so  ugly,  was  bitten,  pecked,  and  teased  by  both 
Ducks  and  Hens.  "  It  is  so  large  !  "  said  they  all.  And  the  Tur- 
key-cock, who  had  come  into  the  world  with  spurs  on,  and  there- 
fore fancied  he  was  an  emperor,  puffed  himself  up  like  a  ship  in 
full  sail,  and  marched  up  to  the  Duckling  quite  red  with  passion. 
The  poor  little  thing  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  ;  he  was  quite  dis- 
tressed because  he  was  so  ugly,  and  because  he  was  the  jest  of  the 
poultry-yard. 

So  passed  the  first  day,  and  afterwards  matters  grew  worse  and 
worse  ;  the  poor  Duckling  was  scorned  by  all.  Even  his  brothers 
and  sisters  behaved  unkindly,  and  were  constantly  saying,  "  The 
cat  fetch  thee,  thou  nasty  creature  !  "  The  mother  said,  "  Ah,  if 
thou  wert  only  far  away  '  "  The  Ducks  bit  him.  the  Hens  pecked 
him,  and  the  girl  who  fed  the  poultry  kicked  him.  He  ran  over 
the  hedtie  ;  the  little  birds  in  the  bushes  were  terrified.     "  That  is 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  213 

because  I  am  so  ugly,"  thought  the  Duckling,  shutting  his  eyes, 
but  he  ran  on.  At  last  he  came  to  a  wide  moor,  where  lived  some 
"Wild  Ducks  ;  here  he  lay  the  whole  night,  so  tired  and  so  com- 
fortless. In  the  morning  the  Wild  Ducks  flew  up,  and  perceived 
their  new  companion.  "  Pray,  who  are  you  1 "  asked  they  ;  and 
our  little  Duckling  turned  himself  in  all  directions,  and  greeted 
them  as  politely  as  possible. 

"  You  are  really  uncommonly  ugly  !  "  said  the  Wild  Ducks  ; 
"  however,  that  does  not  matter  to  us,  provided  you  do  not  marry 
into  our  families."  Poor  thing !  he  had  never  thought  of  marry- 
ing ;  he  only  begged  permission  to  lie  among  the  reeds  and  drink 
the  water  of  the  moor. 

There  he  lay  for  two  whole  days ;  on  the  third  day  there  came 
two  Wild  Geese,  or  rather  Ganders,  who  had  not  been  long  out  of 
iheii  egg-shells,  which  accounts  for  their  impertinence. 

"  Hark  ye  !  "  said  they,  "  you  are  so  ugly  that  we  like  you  in.- 
finitely  well ;  will  you  come  with  us,  and  be  a  bird  of  passage  1 
On  another  moor,  not  far  from  this,  are  some  dear,  sweet  Wild 
Geese,  as  lovely  creatures  as  have  ever  said  '  hiss,  hiss.'  You  are 
truly  in  the  way  to  make  your  fortune,  ugly  as  you  are." 

Bang !  a  gun  went  off  all  at  once,  and  both  Wild  Geese  were 
stretched  dead  among  the  reeds  ;  the  water  became  red  with  blood ; 
bang  !  a  gun  went  off  again ;  whole  flocks  of  wild  geese  flew  up 
from  among  the  reeds,  and  another  report  followed. 

There  was  a  grand  hunting  party  ;  the  hunters  lay  in  ambush  all 
around ;  some  were  even  sitting  in  the  trees,  whose  huge  branches 
stretched  far  over  the  moor.  The  blue  smoke  rose  through  the 
thick  trees  like  a  mist,  and  was  dispersed  as  it  fell  over  the  water  ; 
the  hounds  splashed  about  in  the  mud,  the  reeds  and  rushes  bent 
in  all  directions ;  how  frightened  the  poor  little  Duck  was  !  he 
turned  his  head,  thinking  to  hide  it  under  his  wings,  and  in  a 
moment  a  most  formidable-looking  dog  stood  close  to  him,  his 
tongue  hanging  out  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes  sparkling  fearfully.  He 
opened  wide  his  jaws  at  the  sight  of  our  Duckling,  showed  him 
his  sharp  white  teeth,  and  splash,  splash  !  he  was  gone,  —  gone 
without  hurting  him. 


214  CHILD  LIFE  IN   PROSE. 

"  Well !  let  me  be  thankful,"  sighed  lie  ;  "  I  am  so  ugly  that 
even  the  dog  will  not  eat  me." 

And  now  he  lay  still,  though  the  shooting  continued  among  the 
reeds,  shot  following  shot. 

The  noise  did  not  cease  till  late  in  the  day,  and  even  then  the 
poor  little'  thing  dared  not  stir  ;  he  waited  several  hours  before  he 
looked  around  hLm,  and  then  hastened  away  from  the  moor  as  fast 
as  he  could  ;  he  ran  over  fields  and  meadows,  though  the  wind  was 
so  high,  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  proceeding. 

Towards  evening  he  reached  a  wretched  little  hut,  so  wretched 
that  it  knew  not  on  which  side  to  fall,  and  therefore  remained 
standing.  The  wind  blew  violently,  so  that  our  poor  little  Duck- 
ling was  obliged  to  support  himself  on  his  tail,  in  order  to  stand 
against  it  ;  but  it  became  worse  and  worse.  He  then  remarked 
that  the  door  had  lost  one  of  its  binges,  and  hung  so  much  awrv 
that  he  could  creep  through  the  crevice  into  the  room,  which  he 
did. 

In  this  room  lived  an  old  woman,  with  her  Tom-cat  and  her 
Hen  ;  and  the  Cat,  whom  she  called  her  little  son,  knew  how  to 
set  up  his  back  and  purr  ;  indeed,  he  eoidd  even  emit  sparks  when 
stroked  the  wrong  way.  The  Hen  had  very  short  legs,  and  was 
therefore  called  "Cuckoo  Short-legs";  she  laid  very  good  eggs, 
and  the  old  woman  loved  her  as  her  own  child. 

The  next  morning  the  new  guest  was  perceived.  The  Cat  began 
to  mew  and  the  Hen  to  cackle. 

""What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  old  woman,  looking  round; 
however,  her  eyes  were  not  good,  so  she  took  the  young  Duckling 
to  be  a  fat  Duck  who  had  lost  her  way.  "  This  is  a  capital  catch," 
said  she  ;  "  I  shall  now  have  ducks'  eggs,  if  it  be  not  a  drake  :  we 
must  try." 

And  so  the  Duckling  was  put  to  the  proof  for  three  weeks,  but 
no  eggs  made  their  appearance. 

oSTow  the  Cat  was  the  master  of  the  house,  and  the  Hen  was  the 
mistress,  and  they  used  always  to  say,  ""We  and  the  world,"  for 
they  imagined  themselves  to  be  not  only  the  half  of  the  world, 


FANCIES  OF  CHILI)  LIFE. 


215 


but  also  by  far  the  better  half.    The  Duckling  thought  it  was  possi- 
ble, to  bo  of  a  different  opinion,  but  that  the  Hen  would  not  allow. 

"  Can  you  lay  eggs  1 "  asked  she. 

"  No." 


"  Well,  then,  hold  your  tongue." 

And  the  Cat  said,  "  Can  you  set  up  your  back  1  can  you  purr  ? " 


No." 


216  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

"  Well,  then,  you  should  have  no  opinion  when  reasonable  per- 
sons are  speaking." 

So  the  Duckling  sat  alone  in  a  corner,  and  was  in  a  very  bad 
humor  ;  however,  he  happened  to  think  of  the  fresh  air  and  bright 
sunshine,  and  these  thoughts  gave  him  such  a  strong  desire  to  swim 
again,  that  he  could  not  help  telling  it  to  the  Hen. 

"  What  ails  you  ? "  said  the  Hen.  "  You  have  nothing  to  do, 
and  therefore  brood  over  these  fancies ;  either  lay  eggs  or  purr, 
then  you  will  forget  them." 

"  But  it  is  so  delicious  to  swim ! "  said  the  Duckling ;  "  so 
delicious  when  the  waters  close  over  your  head,  and  you  plunge 
to  the  bottom!" 

"  Well,  that  is  a  queer  sort  of  pleasure,"  said  the  Hen ;  "  I 
think  you  must  be  crazy.  Xot  to  speak  of  myself,  ask  the  Cat  — 
he  is  the  most  sensible  animal  I  know  —  whether  he  would  like 
to  swim,  or  to  plunge  to  the  bottom  of  the  water.  Ask  our  mis- 
tress, the  old  woman,  —  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  wiser  than 
she ;  do  you  think  she  would  take  pleasure  in  swimming,  and  in 
the  waters  closing  over  her  head '? " 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,"  said  the  Duckling. 

"  What,  we  do  not  understand  you !  So  you  think  yourself 
wiser  than  the  Cat  and  the  old  woman,  not  to  speak  of  myself. 
Do  not  fancy  any  such  thing,  child,  but  be  thankful  for  all  the 
kindness  that  has  been  shown  you.  Are  you  not  lodged  in  a 
warm  room,  and  have  you  not  the  advantage  of  society  from  which 
you  can  learn  something?  But  you  are  a  simpleton,  and  it  is 
wearisome  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you.  Believe  me,  I  wish 
you  well.  I  tell  you  unpleasant  truths,  but  it  is  thus  that  real 
friendship  is  shown.  Come,  for  once  give  yourself  the  trouble  to 
learn  to  purr,  or  to  lay  eggs." 

"  I  think  I  will  go  out  into  the  wide  world  again,"  said  the 
Duckling. 

"  Well,  go,"  answered  the  Hen. 

So  the  Duckling  went.  He  swam  on  the  surface  of  the  water, 
he  plunged  beneath,  but  all  animals  passed  him  by  on  account  of 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  217 

his  ugliness.  And  the  autumn  came,  the  leaves  turned  yellow  and 
brown,  the  wind  caught  them  and  danced  them  about,  the  air  was 
very  cold,  the  clouds  were  heavy  with  hail  or  snow,  and  the  raven 
sat  on  the  hedge  and  croaked,  the  poor  Duckling  was  certainly 
not  very  comfortable  ! 

One  evening,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting  with  unusual  brilliancy, 
a  flock  of  large,  beautiful  birds  rose  from  out  the  brushwood  ; 
the  Duckling  had  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  before ;  their 
plumage  was  of  a  dazzling  white,  and  they  had  long  slender  necks. 
They  were  swans ;  they  uttered  a  singular  cry,  spread  out  their 
long,  splendid  wings,  and  flew  away  from  these  cold  regions  to 
warmer  countries,  across  the  open  sea.  They  flew  so  high,  so  very 
high  !  and  the  little  Ugly  Duckling's  feelings  were  so  strange ;  he 
turned  round  and  round  in  the  water  like  a  mill-wheel,  strained 
his  neck  to  look  after  them,  and  sent  forth  such  a  loud  and  strange 
cry  that  it  almost  frightened  himself.  Ah  !  he  could  not  forget 
them,  those  noble  birds  !  those  happy  birds  !  When  he  coidd  see 
them  no  longer,  he  plunged  to  the  bottom  of  the  water,  and  when 
he  rose  again  was  almost  beside  himself.  The  Duckling  knew  not 
what  the  birds  were  called,  knew  not  whither  they  were  flying, 
yet  he  loved  them  as  he  had  never  before  loved  anything ;  he 
envied  them  not,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him  to  wish 
such  beauty  for  himself ;  he  would  have  been  oprite  contented  if 
the  ducks  in  the  duck  yard  had  but  endured  his  company,  —  the 
poor,  ugly  animal ! 

And  the  winter  was  so  cold,  so  cold  !  The  Duckling  was  obliged 
to  swim  round  and  round  in  the  water,  to  keep  it  from  freezing  ; 
but  every  night  the  opening  in  which  he  swam  became  smaller  and 
smaller ;  it  froze  so  that  the  crust  of  ice  crackled ;  the  Duckling 
was  obliged  to  make  good  use  of  his  legs  to  prevent  the  water 
from  freezing  entirely  ;  at  last,  wearied  out,  he  lay  stiff  and  cold 
in  the  ice. 

Early  in  the  morning  there  passed  by  a  peasant,  who  saw  him, 
broke  the  ice  in  pieces  with  his  wooden  shoe,  and  brought  him 
home  to  his  wife. 
10 


218  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PlluSE. 

He  now  revived  ;  the  children  would  have  played  with  him, 
but  our  Duckling  thought  they  wished  to  tease  him,  and  in  his 
terror  jumped  into  the  milk-pail,  so  that  the  milk  was  spilled 
about  the  room  ;  the  good  woman  screamed  and  clapped  her 
hands  ;  he  flew  thence  into  the  pan  where  the  butter  was  kept, 
and  thence  into  the  meal-barrel,  and  out  again,  and  then  how 
strange  he  looked  ! 

The  woman  screamed,  and  struck  at  him  with  the  tongs,  the 
children  ran  races  with  each  other  trying  to  catch  him,  and  laughed 
and  screamed  likewise.  It  was  well  for  him  that  the  door  stood 
open  ;  he  jumped  out  among  the  bushes  into  the  new-fallen  snow, 
—  he  lay  there  as  in  a  dream. 

But  it  would  be  too  melancholy  to  relate  all  the  trouble  and 
misery  that  he  was  obliged  to  suffer  during  the  severity  of  the 
winter.  He  was  lying  on  a  moor  among  the  reeds,  when  the  sun 
began  to  shine  warmly  again,  the  larks  sang,  and  beautiful  spring 
had  returned. 

And  once  more  he  shook  his  wings.  They  were  stronger  than 
formerly,  and  bore  him  forwards  quickly,  and,  before  he  was  well 
aware  of  it,  he  was  in  a  large  garden  where  the  apple-trees  stood 
in  full  bloom,  where  the  syringas  sent  forth  their  fragrance,  and 
hung  their  long  green  branches  down  into  the  winding  canal.  0, 
everything  was  so  lovely,  so  full  of  the  freshness  of  spring  !  And 
out  of  the  thicket  came  three  beautiful  white  .Swans.  They  dis- 
played their  feathers  so  proudly,  and  swam  so  lightly,  so  lightly  ! 
The  Duckling  knew  the  glorious  creatures,  and  was  seized  with  a 
strange  melancholy. 

"  I  will  fly  to  them,  those  kingly  birds  !  "  said  he.  "  They  will 
kill  me,  because  I,  ugly  as  I  am,  have  presumed  to  approach  them. 
But  it  matters  not ;  better  to  be  killed  by  them  than  to  be  bitten 
by  the  ducks,  pecked  by  the  hens,  kicked  by  the  girl  who  feeds 
the  poultry,  and  to  have  so  much  to  suffer  during  the  winter  !  " 
He  flew  into  the  water,  and  swam  towards  the  beautiful  creatures  •, 
they  saw  him  and  shot  forward  to  meet  him.  "  Only  kill  me," 
said  the  poor  animal,  and  he  bowed  his  head  low,  expecting  death ; 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  219 

but  what  did  he  see  in  the  water?  He  saw  beneath  him  his  own 
form,  no  longer  that  of  a  plump,  ugly,  gray  bird,  —  it  was  that  of 
a  Swan. 

It  matters  not  to  have  been  born  in  a  duck-yard,  if  one  has 
been  hatched  from  a  Swan's  egg. 

The  good  creature  felt  himself  really  elevated  by  all  the  troubles 
and  adversities  he  had  experienced.  He  could  now  rightly  es- 
timate his  own  happiness,  and  the  larger  Swans  swam  around  him, 
and  stroked  him  with  their  beaks. 

Some  little  children  were  running  about  in  the  garden ;  they 
threw  grain  and  bread  into  the  water,  and  the  youngest 
exclaimed,  "  There  is  a  new  one  !  "  the  others  also  cried  out, 
"  Yes,  there  is  a  new  Swan  come  ! "  and  they  clapped  their  hands, 
and  danced  around.  They  ran  to  their  father  and  mother,  bread 
and  cake  were  thrown  into  the  water,  and  every  one  said,  "  The 
new  one  is  the  best,  so  young  and  so  beautiful ! "  and  the  old 
Swans  bowed  before  him.  The  young  Swan  felt  quite  ashamed,  and 
hid  his  head  under  his  wings  ;  he  scarcely  knew  what  to  do,  he  was 
all  too  happy,  but  still  not  proud,  for  a  good  heart  is  never  proud. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  been  persecuted  and  derided,  and 
he  now  heard  every  one  say  he  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
beautiful  birds.  The  syringas  bent  down  their  branches  towards 
him  low  into  the  water,  and  the  sun  shone  so  warmly  and  brightly, 
—  he  shook  his  feathers,  stretched  his  slender  neck,  and  in  the  joy 
of  his  heart  said,  "  How  little  did  I  dream  of  so  much  happiness 
when  I  was  the  ugly,  despised  Duckling  !  " 

Hans  Christian  Andersen. 


220  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS    LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  a  June  morning.  Roses  and  yellow  jasmine  covered  the 
old  wall  in  the  Poet's  garden.  The  little  brown  mason  bees 
flew  in  and  out  of  their  holds  beneath  the  pink  and  white  and 
yellow  flowers.  Peacock-butterflies,  with  large  blue  eyes  on  their 
crimson  velvet  wings,  fluttered  about  and  settled  on  the  orange- 
brown  wall-flowers.  Aloft,  in  the  broad-leaved  sycamore-tree,  the 
blackbird  was  singing  as  if  he  were  out  of  his  senses  for  joy  ;  his 
song  was  as  loud  as  any  nightingale,  and  his  heart  was  glad,  be- 
cause his  young  brood  was  hatched,  and  he  knew  that  they  now 
sat  with  their  little  yellow  beaks  poking  out  of  the  nest,  and  think- 
ing what  a  famous  bird  their  father  was.  All  the  robins  and  tom- 
tits and  linnets  and  redstarts  that  sat  in  the  trees  of  the  garden 
den  shouted  vivas  and  bravuras,  and  encored  him  delightfully. 

The  Poet  himself  sat  under  the  double-flowering  hawthorn, 
which  was  then  all  in  blossom.  He  sat  on  a  rustic  seat,  and  his 
best  friend  sat  beside  him.  Beneath  the  lower  branches  of  the 
tree  was  hung  the  canary-bird's  cage,  which  the  children  had 
brought  out  because  the  day  was  so  fine,  and  the  little  canary  loved 
fresh  air  and  the  smell  of  flowers.  It  never  troubled  him  that 
other  birds  flew  about  from  one  end  of  the  garden  to  the  other,  or 
sat  and  sung  on  the  leafy  branches,  for  he  loved  his  cage  ;  and 
when  the  old  blackbird  poured  forth  his  grand  melodies,  the  little 
canary  sat  like  a  prince  in  a  stage-box,  and  nodded  his  head,  and 
sang  an  accompaniment. 

One  of  the  Poet's  children,  his  little  daughter,  sat  in  her  own 
little  garden,  which  was  full  of  flowers,  while  bees  and  butterflies 
flitted  about  in  the  sunshine.  The  child,  however,  was  not  no- 
ticing them  ;  she  was  thinking  only  of  one  thing,  and  that  was  the 
large  daisy-root  which  was  all  in  flower  ;  it  was  the  largest  daisy- 


FJA'CIFS   OF   CHILD  LIFE. 


221 


root  in  the  whole  garden,  and  two-and-fifty  double  pink-and-wliite 
daisies  were  crowded  upon  it.  They  were,  however,  no  longer 
daisies  to  the  child's  eyes,  but  two-and- 
fifty  little  charity  children  in  green  stuff 
gowns,  and  white  tippets,  and  white  linen 
caps,  that  had  a  holiday  given  them.  She 
saw  them  all,  with  their  pink  cheeks  and 
bright  eyes,  running  in  a  group,  and  talk- 
ing as  they  went ;  the  hum  of  the  bees 
around  seeming  to  be  the  pleasant  sound 
of  their  voices.  The  child  was  happy  to 
think  that  two-and-fifty  charity  children 
were  let  loose  from  school  to  run  about  in 
the  sunshine.  Her  heart  went  with  them, 
and  she  was  so  full  of  joy  that  she  started 
|  up  to  tell  her  father,  who  was  sitting  with 
his  best  friend  under  the  hawthorn-tree. 

Sad  and  bitter  thoughts,  however,  just 
then  oppressed  the  Poet's  heart.     He  had 
been  disappointed  where  he  had  hoped  for 
good  ;  his  soul  was  under  a  cloud  ;  and  as 
the  child  ran  up  to  tell  him  about  the 
little  charity  children  in  whose  joy  she 
thought  he  would  sympathize,  she  heard 
him  say  to  his  friend,  "  I  have  no  longer 
any  hope  of  human  nature  now.     It  is  a 
poor  miserable   thing,   and   is   not  worth 
working    for.       My 
best  endeavors  have 
been  spent  in  its  ser- 
vice, —  my      youth 
and    my    manhood's 
strength,    my     very 
life,  —  and    this    is 
my  reward  !     I  will 


222  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

no  longer  strive  to  do  good.    I  will  write  for  money  alone,  as  others 
do,  and  not  for  the  good  of  mankind  !  " 

The  Poet's  words  were  bitter,  and  tears  came  into  the  eyes  of 
his  best  friend.  Never  had  the  child  heard  such  words  from  her  fa- 
ther before,  for  he  had  always  been  to  her  as  a  great  and  good  angel. 

"  I  will  write,"  said  he,  "  henceforth  for  money,  as  others  do, 
and  not  for  the  good  of  mankind." 

"  My  father,  if  you  do,"  said  the  child,  in  a  tone  of  mournful 
indignation,  "  I  will  never  read  what  you  write  !  I  will  trample 
your  writings  under  my  feet !  " 

Large  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
her  father's  face. 

The  Poet  took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  An  angel 
touched  his  heart,  and  he  now  felt  that  he  could  forgive  his  bitter- 
est enemies. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  my  child,"  he  said,  in  his  usually  mild 
voice. 

The  child  leaned  her  head  against  his  breast,  and  listened. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  he  began,  "  there  was  a  man  who  dwelt  in 
a  great,  wide  wilderness.  He  was  a  poor  man,  and  worked  very 
hard  for  liis  bread.  He  lived  in  a  cave  of  a  rock,  and  because  the 
sun  shone  burning  hot  into  the  cave,  he  twined  roses  and  jessa- 
mines and  honeysuckles  all  around  it ;  and  in  front  of  it,  and  on 
the  ledges  of  the  rock,  he  planted  ferns  and  sweet  shrubs,  and 
made  it  very  pleasant.  Water  ran  gurgling  from  a  fissure  -in  the 
rock  into  a  little  basin,  whence  it  poured  in  gentle  streams  through 
the  garden,  in  which  grew  all  kinds  of  delicious  fruits.  Birds 
sang  in  the  tall  trees  which  Nature  herself  had  planted  ;  and  little 
squirrels,  and  lovely  green  lizards,  with  bright,  intelligent  eyes, 
lived  in  the  branches  and  among  the  flowers. 

"  All  would  have  gone  well  with  the  man,  had  not  evil  spirits 
taken  possession  of  his  cave.  They  troubled  him  night  and  day. 
They  dropped  canker-blight  upon  his  roses,  nipped  off  his  jasmine 
and  honeysuckle-flowers,  and,  in  the  form  of  caterpillars  and  blight, 
ate  his  beautiful  fruits. 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  223 

"  It  made  the  man  angry  and  bitter  in  his  feelings.  The  flowers 
were  no  longer  beautiful  to  him,  and  when  he  looked  on  them  he 
thought  only  of  the  canker  and  the  caterpillar. 

"  '  I  can  no  longer  take  pleasure  in  them,'  he  said  ;  '  I  will  leave 
the  cave,  and  go  elsewhere.' 

"  He  did  so  ;  and  travelled  on  and  on,  a  long  way.  But  it  was 
a  vast  wilderness  in  which  he  dwelt,  and  thus  it  was  many  and 
many  a  weary  day  before  ho  came  to  a  place  of  rest ;  nor  did  he 
know  that  all  this  time  the  evil  spirits  who  had  plagued  him  so  in 
his  own  cave  were  still  going  with  him. 

"  But  so  they  were.  And  they  made  every  place  he  came  to 
seem  worse  than  the  last.  Their  very  breath  cast  a  blight  upon 
everything. 

"  He  was  footsore  and  weary,  and  very  miserable.  A  feeling 
like  despair  was  in  his  heart,  and  he  said  that  he  might  as  well  die 
as  live.  He  lay  down  in  the  wilderness,  so  unhappy  was  he,  and 
scarcely  had  he  done  so,  when  he  heard  behind  him  the  pleasantest 
sound  in  the  world,  —  a  little  child  singing  like  a  bird,  because  her 
heart  was  innocent  and  full  of  joy  ;  and  the  next  moment  she 
was  at  his  side. 

"  The  evil  spirits  that  were  about  him  drew  back  a  little  when 
they  saw  her  coming,  because  she  brought  with  her  a  beautiful 
company  of  angels  and  bright  spirits,  —  little  cherubs  with  round, 
rosy  cheeks,  golden  hair,  and  laughing  eyes  between  two  dove's 
wings  as  white  as  snow.  The  child  had  not  the  least  idea  that 
these  beautiful  spirits  were  always  about  her  ;  all  she  knew  was 
that  she  was  full  of  joy,  and  that  she  loved  above  all  things  to  do 
good.  When  she  saw  the  poor  man  lying  there,  she  went  up  to 
him,  and  talked  to  him  so  pityingly,  and  yet  so  cheerfully,  that  he 
felt  as  if  her  words  would  cure  him.  She  told  him  that  she  lived 
just  by,  and  that  he  should  go  with  her,  and  rest  and  get  well  in 
her  cave. 

"  He  went  with  her,  and  found  that  her  cave  was  just  such  a 
one  as  his  own,  only  much  smaller.  Boses  and  honeysuckles  and 
jasmine  grew  all  around  it ;   and  birds  were  singing,   and   gold- 


224  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

fish  were  sporting  about  in  the  water ;  and  there  were  beds  of 

strawberries,  all  red  and  luscious,  that  filled  the  air  with  fra- 
grance. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  place.  There  seemed  to  be  no  canker  imr 
blight  on  anything.  .  And  yet  the  man  saw  how  spiders  had  woven 
webs  like  the  most  beautiful  lace  from  one  vine-branch  to  another ; 
and  butterflies  that  once  had  been  devouring  caterpillars  were 
flitting  about.  Just  as  in  his  own  garden,  yellow  frogs  were 
squatted  under  the  cool  green  strawberry  leaves.  But  the  child 
loved  both  the  frogs  and  the  green  lizards,  and  said  that  they  did 
her  no  harm,  and  that  there  were  plenty  of  strawberries  both  for 
them  and  for  her. 

"  The  evil  spirits  that  had  troubled  the  man,  and  followed  him, 
could  not  get  into  the  child's  garden.  It  was  impossible,  because 
all  those  rosy-cheeked  cherubs  and  white-robed  angels  lived  there ; 
and  that  which  is  good,  be  it  ever  so  small,  is  a  great  deal  stronger 
than  that  which  is  evil,  be  it  ever  so  large.  They  therefore  sat 
outside  and  bit  their  nails  for  vexation  ;  and  as  the  man  stayed  a 
long  time  with  the  child,  they  got  so  tired  of  waiting  that  a  good 
number  of  them  flew  away  forever. 

"  At  length  the  man  kissed  the  child  and  went  back  to  his  own 
place ;  and  when  he  got  there  he  had  the  pleasure  of  rinding  that, 
owing  to  the  evil  spirits  having  been  so  long  away,  the  flowers  and 
fruits  had,  in  great  measure,  recovered  themselves.  There  was 
hardly  any  canker  or  blight  left.  And  as  the  child  came  now  very 
often  to  see  him, — for,  after  all,  they  did  not  live  so  very  far  apart, 
only  that  the  man  had  wandered  a  long  way  round  in  the  wilder- 
ness, —  and  brought  with  her  all  the  bright  company  that  dwelt 
with  her,  the  place  was  freed,  at  least  while  she  stayed,  from  the 
evil  ones. 

"  This  is  a  true  story,  a  perfectly  true  story,"  added  the  Poet, 
when  he  had  brought  his  little  narrative  to  an  end  ;  "  and  there  are 
many  men  who  live  like  him  in  a  wilderness,  and  who  go  a  long 
way  round  about  before  they  can  find  a  resting-place.  And  happy 
is  it  fur  such  when  they  can  have  a  child  for  their  neighbor  ;  for 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


225 


our  Divine  Master  has  himself  told  us  that  hlessed  are  little  chil- 
dren, and  that  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  " 

The  Poet  was  silent.  His  little  daughter  kissed  him,  and  then, 
"without  saying  a  word  about  the  little  charity  children,  ran  off  to 
sit  down  beside  them  again,  and  perhaps  to  tell  them  the  story 
which  her  father  had  just  related  to  her. 

Mary  Howitt. 


""^gSr1* 


226  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


THE  EED  FLOWER 

\\[  HAT  it  was,  where  it  grew,  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  tell 
V  V  you.  I  had  seen  it  once,  when  a  little  child,  in  a  stony 
road,  among  the  thorns  of  a  hedge  ;  and  I  had  gathered  it.  Ah  ! 
that  was  certain !  It  waved  at  the  end  of  a  long  stalk  ;  its  petals 
were  of  a  flame-like  red  ;  its  form  was  unlike  anything  known, 
resembling  somewhat  a  censer,  from  which  issued  golden  stamens. 
Since  those  earliest  days,  I  had  often  sought  it,  often  asked  for 
it.  When  I  mentioned  it,  people  laughed  at  me.  I  spoke  of  the 
flower  no  more,  but  I  sought  for  it  still. 

,  "  Impossible  ! "  Experience  writes  the  word  in  the  dictionary 
of  the  man.  In  the  child's  vocabulary,  it  has  no  existence,  The 
marvellous  to  him  is  perfectly  natural.  Things  which  he  sees 
to  be  beautiful  arrange  themselves  along  his  path;  why  should  he 
have  a  doubt  of  this  or  of  that  1  By  and  by,  exact  bounds  will 
limit  his  domain.  A  faint  line,  then  a  barrier,  then  a  wall  :  ere- 
long the  wall  will  rise  and  surround  the  man,  —  a  dungeon  from 
which  he  must  have  wings  to  escape. 

Around  the  child  are  neither  walls  nor  boundary  lines,  but  a 
limitless  expanse,  everywhere  glowing  with  beautiful  colors.  In 
the  far-off  depths,  reality  mingles  with  revery.  It  is  like  an  ocean 
whose  blue  waves  glimmer  and  sparkle  on  the  horizon,  where  they 
kiss  the  shores  of  enchanted  isles. 

I  sought  the  red  flower.     Have  you  never  searched  for  it  too  % 
This  morning,  in  the  spring  atmosphere,  its  memory  came  back 
to  my  heart.    It  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  find  it  ;  and  I  walked 
on  at  random. 

I  went  through  solitary  footpaths.  The  laborers  had  gone  to 
their  noonday  repose.  The  meadows  were  all  in  bloom.  Weeds, 
growing  in  spite  of  wind  and  tide  spread  a  golden  carpet  beside 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


227 


the  rose-colored  meadow-grass.  In  the  wet  places  were  tangles  of 
pale  blue  forget-me-nots  ;  beyond  them,  tufts  of  the  azure  veronica, 
and  over  the  stream  hung  the  straw-colored  lotus.  Under  the 
gram,  yet  green,  corn-poppies  were  waving.  With  every  breeze  a 
scarlet  wave  arose,  swelled,  and  vanished. 

Blue  butterflies  danced  before  me,  mingling  and  dispersing  like 
floating  flower-petals  in  the  air.     Under  the  umbelled  plants  was 


a  pavement  of  beetles,  of  black  and  purple  mosaic.     On  the  tufts 
of  the  verbena  gathered    insects  with    shells    blazoned    like    the 


228  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

escutcheons  of  the  knights  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  quail  was 
calling  in  the  thickets  ;  three  notes  here,  and  three  there.  I  found 
myself  on  the  skirt  of  a  pine  forest,  and  I  seated  myself  on  the  grass. 

The  red  flower!  I  thought  of  it  no  longer.  The  butterflies 
had  carried  it  away.  I  thought  how  beautiful  life  is  on  a  spring 
morning  ;  what  happiness  it  is  to  open  the  lips  and  inhale  the 
fresh  air ;  what  joy  to  open  the  eyes  and  behold  the  earth  in  her 
bridal  robes  ;  what  delight  to  open  the  hands  and  gather  the  sweet- 
smelling  blossoms.  Then  I  thought  of  the  God  of  the  heavens, 
that,  arching  above  me,  spoke  of  his  power.  I  thought  of  the 
Lord  of  the  little  ones,  —  of  the  insects  that,  flitting  about  me, 
spoke  of  his  goodness.  All  these  accents  awoke  a  chord  in  har- 
mony with  that  which  burst  forth  from  the  blossoming  meadows. 

I  arose,  and  came  to  a  recess  in  the  shadowy  edge  of  the  forest. 

As  I  walked,  something  glowed  in  the  grass ;  something  dazzled 
me  ;  something  made  niy  heart  throb.     It  was  the  red  flower ! 

I  seized  it.  I  held  it  tightly  in  my  hand.  It  was  the  flower ; 
yes,  it  was  the  same,  but  with  a  strange,  new  splendor.  I  possessed 
it,  yet  I  dared  not  look  upon  it. 

Suddenly  I  felt  the  blossom  tremble  in  my  fingers.  They  loos- 
ened their  grasp.  The  flower  dilated.  It  expanded  its  carnation 
petals,  slightly  tinged  with  green  ;  it  spread  out  a  purple  calyx  ; 
two  stamens,  two  antenna?,  vibrated  a  moment.  The  blossom  quiv- 
ered ;  some  breath  had  made  it  shudder  ;  its  wings  unfolded.  As  I 
gazed,  it  fluttered  a  little,  then  rose  in  a  golden  sunbeam  ;  its  colors 
played  in  the  different  strata  of  the  air,  the  roseate,  the  azure,  the 
ether  ;  it  disappeared. 

0  my  flower  !  I  know  whither  thou  goest  and  whence  thou 
comest  !  I  know  the  hidden  sources  of  thine  eternal  bloom.  I  know 
the  "Word  that  created  thee  :  I  know  the  Eden  where  thou  growest ! 

Winged  flower  !  he  who  falters  in  his  search  for  thee  will  never 
find  thee.  He  who  seeks  thee  on  earth  may  grasp  thee,  but  will 
surely  lose  thee  again.  Flower  of  Paradise,  thou  belongest  only 
to  him  who  searches  for  thee  where  thou  hast  been  planted  by  the 
hand  of  the  Lord.  Madame  De  Gasparin. 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


229 


THE  STORY  WITHOUT  AX  END. 
I. 

THERE  was  once  a  child  who  lived  in  a  little  hut,  and  in  the 
hut  there  was  nothing  hut  a  little  hed,  and  a  looking-glass 
which  hung  in  a  dark  corner.  Now  the  child  cared  nothing  at  all 
ahout  the  looking-glass,  hut  as  soon  as  the  first  sunheam  glided 
softly  through  the  casement  and  kissed  his  sweet  eyelids,  and  the 
finch  and  the  linnet  waked  him  merrily  with  their  morning  songs, 
he  arose  and  went  out  into  the  green  meadow.  And  he  hegged 
flour  of  the  primrose,  and  sugar  of  the  violet,  and  butter  of  the 
buttercup  ;  he  shook  dew-drops  from  the  cowslip  into  the  cup  of 
a  harebell ;  spread  out  a  large  lime-leaf,  set  his  little  breakfast 
upon  it,  and  feasted  daintily.  Sometimes  he  invited  a  humming- 
bee,  oftener  a  gay  butterfly,  to  partake  of  his  feast ;  but  his  favor- 
ite guest  was  the  blue  dragon-fly.  The  bee  murmured  a  good  deal, 
in  a  solemn  tone,  about  his  riches ;  but  the  child  thought  that  if 
lie  were  a  bee,  heaps  of  treasure  would  not  make  him  gay  and 


230  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

happy  ;  and  that  it  must  be  much  more  delightful  and  glorious  to 

float  about  in  the  free  and  fresh  breezes  of  spring,  and  to  hum 
joyously  in  the  web  of  the  sunbeams,  than,  with  heavy  feet  and 
heavy  heart,  to  stow  the  silver  wax  and  the  golden  honey  into 
cells. 

To  this  the  butterfly  assented  ;  and  he  told  how,  once  on  a  time, 
he  too  had  been  greedy  and  sordid  ;  how  he  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  eating,  and  had  never  once  turned  his  eyes  upwards  to  the 
blue  heavens.  At  length,  however,  a  complete  change  had  come 
over  him ;  and  instead  of  crawling  spiritless  about  the  dirty  earth, 
half  dreaming,  he  all  at  once  awaked  as  out  of  a  deep  sleep.  And 
now  he  could  rise  into  the  air ;  and  it  was  his  greatest  joy  some- 
times to  play  with  the  light,  and  to  reflect  the  heavens  in  the 
bright  eyes  of  his  wings  ;  sometimes  to  listen  to  the  soft  language 
of  the  flowers,  and  catch  their  secrets.  Such  talk  delighted  the 
child,  and  his  breakfast  was  the  sweeter  to  him,  and  the  sunshine 
on  leaf  and  flower  seemed  to  him  more  bright  and  cheering. 

But  when  the  bee  had  flown  off  to  beg  from  flower  to  flower, 
and  the  butterfly  had  fluttered  away  to  his  playfellows,  the  dragon- 
fly still  remained  poised  on  a  blade  of  grass.  Her  slender  and 
burnished  body,  more  brightly  and  deeply  blue  than  the  deep  blue 
sky,  glistened  in  the  sunbeam  ;  and  her  netdike  wings  laughed  at 
the  flowers  because  they  could  not  fly,  but  must  stand  still  and 
abide  the  wind  and  the  rain.  The  dragon-fly  sipped  a  little  of  the 
child's  clear  dew-drops  and  blue-violet  honey,  and  then  whispered 
her  winged  words.  And  the  child  made  an  end  of  his  repast, 
closed  his  dark  blue  eyes,  bent  down  his  beautiful  head,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  sweet  prattle. 

Then  the  dragon-fly  told  much  of  the  merry  life  in  the  green 
wood,  —  how  sometimes  she  played  hide-and-seek  with  her  play- 
fellows under  the  broad  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  beech  trees ; 
or  hunt-the-hare  along  the  surface  of  the  still  waters ;  sometimes 
quietly  watched  the  sunbeams,  as  they  flew  busily  from  moss  to 
flower  and  from  flower  to  bush,  and  shed  life  and  warmth  over  all. 
But  at  night,  she  said,  the  moonbeams  glided  softly  around  the 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  231 

wood,  and  dropped  dew  into  the  mouths  of  all  the  thirsty  plants ; 
and  when  the  dawn  pelted  the  slumberers  with  the  soft  roses  of 
heaven,  some  of  the  half-drunken  flowers  looked  up  and  smiled, 
hut  most  of  them  could  not  so  much  as  raise  their  heads  for  a  long, 
long  time. 

Such  stories  did  the  dragon-fly  tell ;  and  as  the  child  sat  mo- 
tionless, with  his  eyes  shut,  and  his  head  rested  on  his  little  hand, 
she  thought  he  had  fallen  asleep ;  so  she  poised  her  double  wings 
and  flew  into  the  rustling  wood. 


II. 

But  the  child  was  only  sunk  into  a  dream  of  delight,  and  was 
wishing  he  were  a  sunbeam  or  a  moonbeam ;  and  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  hear  more  and  more,  and  forever.  But  at  last,  as  all 
was  still,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around  for  his  dear  guest, 
but  she  was  flown  far  away ;  so  he  could  not  bear  to  sit  there  any 
longer  alone,  and  he  rose  and  went  to  the  gurgling  brook.  It 
gushed  and  rolled  so  merrily,  and  tumbled  so  wildly  along  as  it 
hurried  to  throw  itself  head-over-heels  into  the  river,  just  as  if  the 
great  massy  rock  out  of  which  it  sprang  were  close  behind  it,  and 
could  only  be  escaped  by  a  break-neck  leap. 

Then  the  child  began  to  talk  to  the  little  waves,  and  asked  them 
whence  they  came.  They  would  not  stay  to  give  him  an  answer, 
but  danced  away,  one  over  another,  till  at  last,  that  the  sweet 
child  might  not  be  grieved,  a  drop  of  water  stopped  behind  a  piece 
of  rock.  From  her  the  child  heard  strange  histories  ;  but  he  could 
not  understand  them  all,  for  she  told  him  about  her  former  life,  and 
about  the  depths  of  the  mountain. 

"  A  long  while  ago,"  said  the  drop  of  water,  "  I  lived  with  my 
countless  sisters  in  the  great  ocean,  in  peace  and  unity.  We  had 
all  sorts  of  pastimes ;  sometimes  we  mounted  up  high  into  the  air, 
and  peeped  at  the  stars  ;  then  we  sank  plump  down  deep  below, 
and  looked  how  the  coral-builders  work  till  they  are  tired,  that 
they  may  reach  the  light  of  day  at   last.     But  I  was  conceited, 


232  CHILD  LIFE   AV  PROSE. 

and  thought  myself  much  better  than  my  sisters.  And  so  one 
day,  when  the  sun  rose  out  of  the  sea,  I  clung  fast  to  one  of  his 
hot  beams,  and  thought  that  now  I  should  reach  the  stars,  and 
become  one  of  them.  But  I  had  not  ascended  far,  when  the  sun- 
beam shook  me  off,  and,  in  spite  of  all  I  could  say  or  do,  let  me 
fall  into  a  dark  cloud.  And  soon  a  flash  of  fire  darted  through 
the  cloud,  and  now  I  thought  I  must  surely  die ;  but  the  whole 
cloud  laid  itself  down  softly  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  so  I 
escaped  with  my  fright  and  a  black  eye.  aS*ow  I  thought  1  should 
remain  hidden,  when  all  on  a  sudden,  I  slipped  over  a  round  peb- 
ble, fell  from  one  stone  to  another,  down  into  the  depths  of  the 
mountain,  till  at  last  it  was  pitch  dark,  and  I  could  neither  see  nor 
hear  anything.  Then  I  found,  indeed,  that  '  pride  goeth  before  a 
fall,'  resigned  myself  to  my  fate,  and,  as  I  had  already  laid  aside 
all  my  unhappy  pride  in  the  cloud,  my  portion  was  now  the  salt 
of  humility ;  and  after  undergoing  many  purifications  from  the 
hidden  virtues  of  metals  and  minerals,  I  was  at  length  permitted 
to  come  up  once  more  into  the  free  cheerful  air ;  and  now  will  I 
run  back  to  my  sisters,  and  there  wait  patiently  till  I  am  called  to 
something  better." 

But  hardly  had  she  done  when  the  root  of  a  forget-me-not 
caught  the  drop  of  water  by  her  hair,  and  sucked  her  in,  that  she 
might  become  a  floweret,  and  twinkle  brightly  as  a  blue  star  on 
the  green  firmament  of  earth. 


III. 

The  child  did  not  very  well  know  what  to  think  of  all  this  ; 
he  went  thoughtfully  home,  and  laid  himself  on  his  little  bed ; 
and  all  night  long  he  was  wandering  about  on  the  ocean,  and 
among  the  stars,  and  over  the  dark  mountain.  But  the  moon 
loved  to  look  on  the  slumbering  child,  as  he  lay  with  his  little 
head  softly  pillowed  on  his  right  arm.  She  lingered  a  long  time 
before  his  little  window,  and  went  slowly  away  to  lighten  the 
dark  chamber  of  some  sick  person.     As  the  moon's  soft  light  lay 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  233 

on  the  child's  eyelids,  he  fancied  he  sat  in  a  golden  boat,  on  a 
great,  great  water ;  countless  stars  swam  glittering  on  the  dark 
mirror.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  catch  the  nearest  star,  hut 
it  vanished,  and  the  water  sprayed  up  against  him.  Then  he  saw 
clearly  that  these  were  not  the  real  stars  ;  he  looked  up  to  heaven, 
and  wished  he  could  fly  thither.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  moon 
had  wandered  on  her  way  ;  and  now  the  child  was  led  in  his 
dream  into  the  clouds,  and  he  thought  he  was  sitting  on  a  white 
sheep,  and  he  saw  many  lambs  grazing  around  him.  He  tried  to 
catch  a  little  lamb  to  play  with,  but  it  was  all  mist  and  vapor ; 
and  the  child  was  sorrowful,  and  wished  himself  down  again  in 
his  own  meadow,  where  his  own  lamb  was  sporting  gayly  about. 

Meanwhile  the  moon  was  gone  to  sleep  behind  the  mountains, 
and  all  around  was  dark.  Then  the  child  dreamed  that  he  fell 
down  into  the  dark,  gloomy  caverns  of  the  mountain  ;  and  at  that 
he  was  so  frightened  that  he  suddenly  awoke,  just  as  Morning 
opened  her  clear  eye  over  the  nearest  hill. 


IV. 

The  child  started  up,  and,  to  recover  himself  from  his  fright, 
went  into  the  little  flower-garden  behind  his  cottage,  where  the 
beds  were  surrounded  by  ancient  palm-trees,  and  where  he  knew 
that  all  the  flowers  would  nod  kindly  at  him.  But,  behold,  the 
tulip  turned  up  her  nose,  and  the  ranunculus  held  her  head  as 
stiffly  as  possible,  that  she  might  not  bow  good-morrow  to  him. 
The  rose,  with  her  fair  round  cheeks,  smiled,  and  greeted  the  child 
lovingly ;  so  he  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her  fragrant  mouth. 
And  then  the  rose  tenderly  complained  that  he  so  seldom  came 
into  the  garden,  and  that  she  gave  out  her  bloom  and  her  fra- 
grance the  livelong  day  in  vain  ;  for  the  other  flowers  coidd  not  see 
her  because  they  were  too  low,  or  did  not  care  to  look  at  her  because 
they  themselves  were  so  rich  in  bloom  and  fragrance.  But  she  was 
most  delighted  when  she  glowed  in  the  blooming  head  of  a  child, 
and  could  pour  all  her  heart's  secrets  to  him  in  sweet  odors. 


234  CHILD   LIFE  IS  PROSE. 

Among  other  things,  the  rose  whispered  in  his  ear  that  she  was 
the  fulness  of  beauty. 

And  in  truth  the  child,  while  looking  at  her  beauty,  seemed  to 
have  quite  forgotten  to  go  on,  till  the  blue  larkspur  called  to  him, 
and  asked  whether  he  cared  nothing  more  about  his  faithful  friend; 
she  said  that  she  was  unchanged,  and  that  even  in  death  she 
should  look  upon  hirn  with  eyes  of  unfading  blue. 

The  child  thanked  her  for  her  true-heartedness,  and  passed  on 
to  the  hyacinth,  who  stood  near  the  puffy,  full-cheeked,  gaudy 
tulips.  Even  from  a  distance  the  hyacinth  sent  forth  kisses  to  him, 
for  she  knew  not  how  to  express  her  love.  Although  she  was  not 
remarkable  for  her  beauty,  yet  the  child  felt  himself  wondrously 
attracted  by  her,  for  he  thought  no  flower  loved  him  so  well. 
But  the  hyacinth  poured  out  her  full  heart  and  wept  bitterly, 
because  she  stood  so  lonely  ;  the  tulips  indeed  were  her  country- 
men, but  they  were  so  cold  and  unfeeling  that  she  was  ashamed 
of  them.  The  child  encouraged  her,  and  told  her  he  did  not  think 
things  were  so  bad  as  she  fancied.  The  tulips  spoke  their  love  in 
bright  looks,  while  she  uttered  hers  in  fragrant  words  ;  that  these, 
indeed,  were  lovelier  and  more  intelligible,  but  that  the  others  were 
not  to  be  despised. 

Then  the  hyacinth  was  comforted,  and  said  she  would  be  con- 
tent ;  and  the  child  went  on  to  the  powdered  auricula,  who,  in  her 
bashfulness,  looked  kindly  up  to  him,  and  would  gladly  have  given 
him  more  than  kind  looks  had  she  had  more  to  give.  But  the 
child  was  satisfied  with  her  modest  greeting  ;  he  felt  that  he  was 
poor  too,  and  he  saw  the  deep,  thoughtful  colors  that  lay  beneath 
her  golden  dust.  But  the  humble  flower,  of  her  own  accord,  sent 
him  to  her  neighbor,  the  lily,  whom  she  willingly  acknowledged 
as  her  queen.  And  when  the  child  came  to  the  lily,  the  slender 
flower  waved  to  and  fro,  and  bowed  her  pale  head  with  gentle 
pride  and  stately  modesty,  and  sent  forth  a  fragrant  greeting  to 
him.  The  child  knew  not  what  had  come  to  him  ;  it  reached  his 
inmost  heart,  so  that  his  eyes  filled  with  soft  tears.  Then  he 
marked  how  the  lily  gazed  with  a  clear  and  steadfast  eye  upon  the 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  235 

sun,  and  how  the  sun  looked  down  again  into  her  pure  chalice, 
and  how,  amid  this  interchange  of  looks,  the  three  golden  threads 
united  in  the  centre.  And  the  child  heard  how  one  scarlet  lady- 
bird at- the  bottom  of  the  cup  said  to  another,  "  Knowest  thou  not 
that  we  dwell  in  the  flower  of  heaven  1 "  and  the  other  replied, 
"  Yes,  and  now  will  the  mystery  be  fulfilled." 

And  as  the  child  saw  and  heard  all  this,  the  dim  image  of  his 
unknown  parents,  as  it  were  veiled  in  a  holy  light,  floated  before 
his  eyes ;  he  strove  to  grasp  it,  but  the  light  was  gone,  and  the 
child  slipped,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  the  branch  of  a 
currant-bush  caught  and  held  him ;  he  took  some  of  the  bright 
berries  for  his  morning's  meal,  and  went  back  to  his  hut  and 
stripped  the  little  branches. 

V. 

In  the  hut  he  stayed  not  long,  all  was  so  gloomy,  close,  and 
silent  within  ;  and  abroad  everything  seemed  to  smile,  and  to 
exult  in  the  clear  and  unbounded  space.  Therefore  the  child  went 
out  into  the  green  wood,  of  which  the  dragon-fly  had  told  him 
such  pleasant  stories.  But  he  found  everything  far  more  beautiful 
and  lovely  even  than  she  had  described  it ;  for  all  about,  wherever 
he  went,  the  tender  moss  pressed  his  little  feet,  and  the  delicate 
grass  embraced  his  knees,  and  the  flowers  kissed  his  hands,  and 
even  the  branches  stroked  his  cheeks  with  a  kind  and  refreshing 
touch,  and  the  high  trees  threw  their  fragrant  shade  around 
him. 

There  was  no  end  to  his  delight.  The  little  birds  warbled,  and 
sang,  and  fluttered,  and  hopped  about,  and  the  delicate  wood- 
flowers  gave  out  their  beauty  and  their  odors  ;  and  every  sweet 
sound  took  a  sweet  odor  by  the  hand,  and  thus  walked  through 
the  open  door  of  the  child's  heart,  and  held  a  joyous  nuptial  dance 
therein.  But  the  nightingale  and  the  lily  of  the  valley  led  the 
dance  ;  for  the  nightingale  sang  of  naught  but  love,  and  the  lily 
breathed  of  naught  but  innocence,  and  he  was  the  bridegroom  and 


23G  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

she  was  the  bride.  And  the  nightingale  was  never  weary  of 
repeating  the  same  tlnng  a  hundred  times  over,  for  the  spring  of 
love  which  gushed  from  his  heart  was  ever  new;  and  the  lily 
bowed  her  head  bashfully,  that  no  one  might  see  her  glowing 
heart.  And  yet  the  one  lived  so  solely  and  entirely  in  the  other, 
that  no  one  could  see  whether  the  notes  of  the  nightingale  were 
floating  lilies,  or  the  lilies  visible  notes,  falling  like  dew-drops  from 
the  nightingale's  tliroat. 

The  cliild's  heart  was  full  of  joy  even  to  the  brim.  He  set 
himself  down,  and  he  almost  thought  he  should  like  to  take  root 
there,  and  live  forever  among  the  sweet  plants  and  flowers,  and  so 
become  a  true  sharer  in  all  their  gentle  pleasures.  For  he  felt  a 
deep  delight  in  the  still,  secluded  twilight  existence  of  the  mosses 
and  small  herbs,  which  felt  not  the  storm,  nor  the  frost,  nor  the 
scorching  sunbeam,  but  dwelt  cjuietly  among  their  many  friends 
and  neighbors,  feasting  in  peace  and  good-fellowship  on  the  dew 
and  cool  shadows  which  the  mighty  trees  shed  upon  them.  To 
them  it  was  a  high  festival  when  a  sunbeam  chanced  to  visit  their 
lowly  home  ;  whilst  the  tops  of  the  lofty  trees  could  find  joy  and 
beauty  only  in  the  purple  rays  of  morning  or  evening. 


VI. 

And  as  the  child  sat  there,  a  little  mouse  rustled  from  among 
the  dry  leaves  of  the  former  year,  and  a  lizard  half  glided  from  a 
crevice  in  the  rock,  and  when  they  saw  that  he  designed  them  no 
evil,  they  took  courage  and  came  nearer  to  him. 

"  I  should  like  to  live  with  you,"  said  the  child  to  the  two  little 
creatures,  in  a  soft,  subdued  voice,  that  he  might  not  frighten 
them.  "  Your  chambers  are  so  snug,  so  warm,  and  yet  so  shaded, 
and  the  flowers  grow  in  at  your  windows,  and  the  birds  sing  you 
their  morning  song,  and  call  you  to  table  and  to  bed  with  their 
clear  warblings." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mouse,  "  it  would  be  all  very  well  if  all  the 
plants  bore  nuts  and  mast,  instead  of  those  silly  flowers ;  and  if  I 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  237 

were  not  obliged  to  grub  under  ground  in  the  spring,  and  gnaw 
the  bitter  roots,  whilst  they  are  dressing  themselves  in  their  line 
flowers,  and  flaunting  it  to  the  world,  as  if  they  had  endless  stores 
of  honey  in  their  cellars." 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  interrupted  the  lizard,  pertly  ;  "  do  you 
think,  because  you  are  gray,  that  other  people  must  throw  away 
their  handsome  clothes,  or  let  them  lie  in  the  dark  wardrobe  under 
ground,  and  wear  nothing  but  gray  too  1  I  am  not  so  envious.  The 
flowers  may  dress  themselves  as  they  like  for  all  me  ;  they  pay  for  it 
out  of  their  own  pockets,  and  they  feed  bees  and  beetles  from  their 
cups ;  but  what  I  want  to  know  is,  of  what  use  are  birds  in  the 
world?  Such  a  fluttering  and  chattering,  truly,  from  morning 
early  to  evening  late,  that  one  is  worried  and  stunned  to  death,  and 
there  is  never  a  day's  peace  for  them.  And  they  do  nothing,  only 
snap  up  the  flies  and  the  spiders  out  of  the  mouths  of  such  as  I. 
For  my  part,  I  should  be  perfectly  satisfied,  provided  all  the  birds 
in  the  world  were  flies  and  beetles." 

The  child  changed  color,  and  his  heart  was  sick  and  saddened 
when  he  heard  their  evil  tongues.  He  could  not  imagine  how 
anybody  could  speak  ill  of  the  beautiful  flowers,  or  scoff  at  his 
beloved  birds.  He  was  waked  out  of  a  sweet  dream,  and  the 
wood  seemed  to  him  a  lonely  desert,  and  he  was  ill  at  ease. 
He  started  up  hastily,  so  that  the  mouse  and  the  lizard  shrank 
back  alarmed,  and  did  not  look  around  them  till  they  thought 
themselves  safe  out  of  the  reach  of  the  stranger  with  the  large 
severe  eyes. 

VII. 

But  the  child  went  away  from  the  place ;  and  as  he  hung  down 
his  head  thoughtfully,  he  did  not  observe  that  he  took  the  wrong 
path,  nor  see  how  the  flowers  on  either  side  bowed  their  heads  to 
welcome  him,  nor  hear  how  the  old  birds  from  the  boughs  and 
the  young  from  the  nests  cried  aloud  to  him,  "  God  bless  thee,  our 
dear  little  prince ! "  And  he  went  on  and  on,  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  deep  wood  ;  and  he  thought  over  the  foolish  and 


238  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

heartless  talk  of  the  two  selfish  chatterers,  and  could  not  under- 
stand it.  He  would  fain  have  forgotten  it,  but  he  could  not.  And 
the  more  he  pondered,  the  more  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  malicious 
spider  had  spun  her  web  around  him,  and  as  if  his  eyes  were 
weary  with  trying  to  look  through  it. 

And  suddenly  he  came  to  a  still  water,  above  which  young 
beeches  lovingly  intwined  their  arms.  He  looked  in  the  water, 
and  his  eyes  were  riveted  to  it  as  if  by  enchantment.  He  could 
not  move,  but  stood  and  gazed  in  the  soft,  placid  mirror,  from  the 
bosom  of  which  the  tender  green  foliage,  with  the  deep  blue  heav- 
ens between,  gleamed  so  wondrously  upon  him.  His  sorrow  was 
all  forgotten,  and  even  the  echo  of  the  discord  in  his  little  heart 
was  hushed.  That  heart  was  once  more  in  his  eyes ;  and  fain 
would  he  have  drunk  in  the  soft  beauty  of  the  colors  that  lay 
beneath  him,  or  have  plunged  into  the  lovely  deep. 

Then  the  breeze  began  to  sigh  among  the  tree-tops.  The  child 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  overhead  the  quivering  green,  and  the  deep 
blue  behind  it,  and  he  knew  not  whether  he  were  awake  or  dream- 
ing ;  which  were  the  real  leaves  and  the  real  heavens,  —  those  in 
the  heights  above,  or  in  the  depths  beneath '?  Long  did  the  child 
waver,  and  his  thoughts  floated  in  a  delicious  dreaminess  from  one 
to  the  other,  till  the  dragon-fly  flew  to  him  in  affectionate  haste, 
and  with  rustling  wings  greeted  her  kind  host.  The  child  re- 
turned her  greeting,  and  was  glad  to  meet  an  acquaintance  with 
whom  he  could  share  the  rich  feast  of  his  joy.  But  first  he  asked 
the  dragon-fly  if  she  could  decide  for  him  between  the  upper  ami 
the  nether, — the  height  and  the  depth.  The  dragon-fly  flew 
above,  and  beneath,  and  around  ;  but  the  water  spake  :  "  The 
foliage  and  the  sky  above  are  not  the  true  ones ;  the  leaves  wither 
and  fall ;  the  sky  is  often  overcast,  and  sometimes  quite  dark."  Then 
the  leaves  and  the  sky  said,  "  The  water  only  apes  us  ;  it  must 
change  its  pictures  at  our  pleasure,  and  can  retain  none."  Then 
the  dragon-fly  remarked  that  the  height  and  the  depth  existed 
only  in  the  eyes  of  the  child,  and  that  the  leaves  and  the  sky 
were  true  and  real  only  in  his  thoughts ;  because  in  the  mind 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  239 

alone  the  picture  was  permanent  and  enduring,  and  could  be 
carried  with  him  whithersoever  he  went. 

This  she  said  to  the  child ;  but  she  immediately  warned  him 
to  return,  for  the  leaves  were  already  beating  the  tattoo  in  the 
evening  breeze,  and  the  lights  were  disappearing  one  by  one  in 
every  corner. 

Then  the  child  confessed  to  her  with  alarm  that  he  knew  not  how 
he  should  find  the  way  back,  and  that  he  feared  the  dark  night 
would  overtake  him  if  he  attempted  to  go  home  alone ;  so  the 
dragon-fly  flew  on  before  him,  and  showed  him  a  cave  in  the  rock 
where  he  might  pass  the  night.  And  the  chdd  was  well  content; 
for  he  had  often  wished  to  try  if  he  could  sleep  out  of  his  accus- 
tomed bed. 

VIII. 

But  the  dragon-fly  was  fleet,  and  gratitude  strengthened  her 
wings  to  pay  her  host  the  honor  she  owed  him.  And  truly,  in 
the  dim  twilight,  good  counsel  and  guidance  were  scarce.  She 
flitted  hither  and  thither  without  knowing  rightly  what  was  to  be 
clone ;  when,  by  the  last  vanishing  sunbeam,  she  saw  hanging  on 
the  edge  of  the  cave  some  strawberries  who  had  drunk  so  deep  of 
the  evening  red  that  their  heads  were  quite  heavy.  Then  she 
flew  up  to  a  harebell  who  stood  near,  and  whispered  in  her  ear 
that  the  lord  and  king  of  all  the  flowers  was  in  the  wood,  and 
ought  to  be  received  and  welcomed  as  beseemed  his  dignity. 
Aglaia  did  not  need  that  this  should  be  repeated.  She  began  to 
ring  her  sweet  bells  with  all  her  might,  and  when  her  neighbor 
heard  the  sound,  she  rang  hers  also  ;  and  soon  all  the  harebells, 
great  and  small,  were  in  motion,  and  rang  as  if  it  had  been  for 
the  nuptials  of  their  mother  earth  herself  with  the  prince  of  the 
sun.  The  tone  of  the  bluebells  was  deep  and  rich,  and  that  of 
the  white,  high  and  clear,  and  all  blended  together  in  a  delicious 
harmony. 

But  the  birds  were  fast  asleep  in  their  high  nests,  and  the  ears 
of  the  other  animals  were  not  delicate  enough,  or  were  too  much 


240  CHILD   LIFE  IX   PROSE. 

overgrown  with  hair,  to  hear  them.  The  fire-flies  alone  heard  the 
joyous  peal,  for  they  were  akin  to  the  flowers,  through  their  com- 
mon ancestor,  light.  They  inquired  of  their  nearest  relation,  the 
lily  of  the  valley,  and  from  her  they  heard  that  a  large  flower  had 
just  passed  along  the  footpath  more  blooming  than  the  loveliest 
rose,  and  with  two  stars  more  brilliant  than  those  of  the  brightest 
fire-fly,  and  that  it  must  needs  be  their  king.  Then  all  the  fire- 
flies flew  up  and  down  the  footpath,  and  sought  everywhere  till  at 
length  they  came,  as  the  dragon-fly  had  hoped  they  would,  to  the 
cave. 

And  now,  as  they  looked  at  the  child,  and  every  one  of  them 
saw  itself  reflected  in  his  clear  eyes,  they  rejoiced  exceedingly, 
and  called  all  their  fellows  together,  and  alighted  on  the  bushes 
all  around  ;  and  soon  it  was  so  light  in  the  cave  that  herb  and 
grass  began  to  grow  as  if  it  had  been  broad  day.  Now,  indeed, 
was  the  joy  and  triumph  of  the  dragon-fly  complete.  The  child 
was  delighted  with  the  merry  and  silvery  tones  of  the  bells,  and 
with  the  many  little  bright-eyed  companions  around  him,  and  with 
the  deep  red  strawberries  which  bowed  down  their  heads  to  his 
touch. 

IX. 

And  when  he  had  eaten  his  fill,  he  sat  down  on  the  soft  moss, 
crossed  one  little  leg  over  the  other,  and  began  to  gossip  with  the 
fire-flies.  And  as  he  so  often  thought  on  his  unknown  parents,  he 
asked  them  who  were  their  parents.  Then  the  one  nearest  to  Mm 
gave  him  answer ;  and  he  told  how  that  they  were  formerly 
flowers,  but  none  of  those  who  thrust  their  root}"  hands  greedily 
into  the  ground  and  draw  nourishment  from  the  dingy  earth  only 
to  make  themselves  fat  and  large  withal ;  but  that  the  light  was 
dearer  to  them  than  anything,  even  at  night  :  and  while  the  other 
flowers  slept,  they  gazed  unwearied  on  the  light,  and  drank  it  in 
with  eager  adoration,  —  sun,  and  moon,  and  starlight.  And  the 
light  had  so  thoroughly  purified  them,  that  they  had  not  sucked 
in  poisonous  juices  like  the  yellow  flowers  of  the  earth,  but  sweet 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE. 


241 


odors  for  sick  and  fainting  hearts,  and  oil  of  potent  ethereal  virtue 
for  the  weak  and  the  wounded  ;  and  at  length,  when  their  autumn 
came,  they  did  not,  like  the  others,  wither  and  sink  down,  leaf  and 


flower,  to  be  swallowed  up  by  the  darksome  earth,  but  shook  off 
their  earthly  garment,  and  mounted  aloft  into  the  clear  air.  But 
there  it  was  so  wondrously  bright  that  sight  failed  them  ;  and 
when  they  came  to  themselves  again,  they  were  fire-flies,  each  sit- 
ting on  a  withered  flower-stalk. 

And  now  the  child  liked  the  bright-eyed  flies  better  than  ever ; 
and  he  talked  a  little  longer  with  them,  and  inquired  why  they 
showed  themselves  so  much  more  in  spring.  They  did  it,  they 
said,  in  the  hope  that  their  gold-green  radiance  might  allure  their 
cousins,  the  flowers,  to  the  pure  love  of  light. 


X. 

During  this  conversation,  the  dragon-fly  had  been  preparing  a 
bed  for  her  host.  The  moss  upon  which  the  child  sat  had  grown 
a  foot  high  behind  his  back,  out  of  pure  joy  ;  but  the  dragon-fly 
and  her  sisters  had  so  revelled  upon  it,  that  it  was  laid  at  its 
length  along  the  cave.  The  dragon-fly  had  awakened  every  spider 
11  i' 


242  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

in  the  neighborhood  out  of  her  sleep,  and  when  they  saw  the 
brilliant  light  they  had  set  to  work  spinning  so  industriously  that 
their  web  hung  down  like  a  curtain  before  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
But  as  the  child  saw  the  ant  peeping  up  at  him,  he  entreated 
the  fire-flies  not  to  deprive  themselves  any  longer  of  their  merry 
games  in  the  wood  on  his  account.  And  the  dragon-fly  and  her 
sisters  raised  the  curtain  till  the  child  had  lain  him  down  to  rest, 
and  then  let  it  fall  again,  that  the  mischievous  gnats  might  not  get 
in  to  disturb  his  slumbers. 

The  child  laid  himself  down  to  sleep,  for  he  was  very  tired ; 
but  he  could  not  sleep,  for  his  couch  of  moss  was  quite  another 
thing  than  his  little  bed,  and  the  cave  was  all  strange  to  him.  He 
turned  himself  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  and,  as  nothing 
would  do,  he  raised  himself  and  sat  upright,  to  wait  till  sleep 
might  choose  to  come.  But  sleep  would  not  come  at  all ;  and  the 
only  wakeful  eyes  in  the  whole  wood  were  the  child's.  For  the 
harebells  had  rung  themselves  weary,  and  the  fire-flies  had  flown 
about  till  they  were  tired,  and  even  the  dragon-fly,  who  would 
fain  have  kept  watch  in  front  of  the  cave,  had  dropped  sound 
asleep. 

The  wood  grew  stiller  and  stiller,  here  and  there  fell  a  dry  leaf 
which  had  been  driven  from  its  old  dwelling-place  by  a  fresh  one, 
here  and  there  a  young  bird  gave  a  soft  chirp  when  its  mother 
squeezed  it  in  the  nest ;  and  from  time  to  time  a  gnat  hummed 
for  a  minute  or  two  in  the  curtain,  till  a  spider  crept  on  tiptoe 
along  its  web,  and  gave  him  such  a  gripe  in  the  windpipe  as  soon 
spoiled  his  trumpeting.  And  the  deeper  the  silence  became,  the 
more  intently  did  the  child  listen,  and  at  last  the  slightest  sound 
thrilled  him  from  head  to  foot.  At  length,  all  was  still  as  death 
in  the  wood  ;  and  the  world  seemed  as  if  it  never  would  wake 
again.  The  child  bent  forward  to  see  whether  it  were  as  dark 
abroad  as  in  the  cave,  but  he  saw  nothing  save  the  pitch  dark 
night,  who  had  wrapped  everything  in  her  thick  veil.  Yet  as  he 
looked  upwards  his  eyes  met  the  friendly  glance  of  two  or  three 
stars  ;  and  this  was  a  most  joyful  surprise  to  him,  for  he  felt  him- 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  243 

self  no  longer  so  entirely  alone.  The  stars  were  indeed  far,  far 
away,  but  yet  he  knew  them,  and  they  knew  him  ;  for  they  looked 
into  his  eyes. 

The  child's  whole  soul  was  fixed  in  his  gaze  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  must  needs  fly  out  of  the  darksome  cave  thither, 
where  the  stars  were  beaming  with  such  pure  and  serene  light ; 
and  he  felt  how  poor  and  lowly  he  was  when  he  thought  of  their 
brilliancy ;  and  how  cramped  and  fettered,  when  he  thought  of 
their  free  unbounded  course  along  the  heavens. 


XL 

But  the  stars  went  on  their  course,  and  left  their  glittering 
picture  only  a  little  while  before  the  child's  eyes.  Even  this 
faded,  and  then  vanished  quite  away.  And  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  tired,  and  to  wish  to  lay  himself  down  again,  when  a  flicker- 
ing will-o'-the-wisp  appeared  from  behind  a  bush,  —  so  that  the 
child  thought,  at  first,  one  of  the  stars  had  wandered  out  of  its 
way  and  had  come  to  visit  him,  and  to  take  him  with  it.  And  the 
child  breathed  quick  with  joy  and  surprise,  and  then  the  will-o'- 
the-wisp  came  nearer,  and  set  himself  down  on  a  damp  mossy 
stone  in  front  of  the  cave,  and  another  fluttered  quickly  after  him, 
and  sat  down  over  against  him,  and  sighed  deeply,  "  Thank  God, 
then,  that  I  can  rest  at  last !  "  "  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  for  that 
you  may  thank  the  innocent  child  who  sleeps  there  within  ;  it  was 
his  pure  breath  that  freed  us."  "  Are  you,  then,"  said  the  child, 
hesitatingly,  "  not  of  yon  stars  which  wander  so  brightly  there 
above  1 "  "  0,  if  we  were  stars,"  replied  the  first,  "  we  should  pur- 
sue our  tranquil  path  through  the  pure  element,  and  should  leave 
this  wood  and  the  whole  darksome  earth  to  itself."  "And  not," 
said  the  other,  "  sit  brooding  on  the  face  of  the  shallow  pool." 

The  child  was  curious  to  know  who  these  could  be  who  shone 
so  beautifully  and  yet  seemed  so  discontented.  Then  the  first 
began  to  relate  how  he  had  been  a  child  too,  and  how,  as  he  grew 
up,  it  had  always  been  his  greatest  delight  to  deceive  people  and 


244  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

play  them  tricks,  to  show  his  wit  and  cleverness.  He  had  always, 
he  said,  poured  such  a  stream  of  smooth  words  over  people,  and 
encompassed  himself  with  such  a  shining  mist,  that  men  had  been 
attracted  by  it  to  their  own  hurt. 

But  once  on  a  time  there  appeared  a  plain  man  who  only  spoke 
two  or  three  simple  words,  and  suddenly  the  bright  mist  vanished, 
and  left  him  naked  and  deformed,  to  the  scorn  and  mockery  of  the 
whole  world.  But  the  man  had  turned  away  his  face  from  him  in 
pity,  while  he  was  almost  dead  with  shame  and  anger.  And  when 
be  came  to  himself  again,  he  knew  not  what  had  befallen  him, 
till  at  length  he  found  that  it  was  bis  fate  to  bover,  without  rest  or 
cbange,  over  the  surface  of  the  bog  as  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 

"  With  me  it  fell  out  quite  otherwise,"  said  the  first ;  "  instead 
of  giving  light  without  warmth,  as  I  now  do,  I  burned  without 
shining.  When  I  was  only  a  child,  people  gave  way  to  me  in 
everything,  so  that  I  was  intoxicated  with  self-love.  If  I  saw  any 
one  shine,  I  longed  to  part  out  his  light ;  and  the  more  intensely 
I  wished  this,  the  more  did  my  own  small  glimmering  turn  back 
«pon  myself,  and  inwardly  burn  fiercely  while  all  without  was 
darker  than  ever.  But  if  any  one  who  sbone  more  brightly  would 
bave  kindly  given  me  of  his  light,  then  did  my  inward  flame  burst 
forth  to  destroy  him.  But  the.  flame  passed  through  the  light  and 
harmed  it  not :  it  shone  only  the  more  brightly,  wbile  I  was 
withered  and  exhausted.  And  once  upon  a  time  I  met  a  little 
smiling  child,  who  played  with  a  cross  of  palm  branches,  and 
wore  a  beaming  coronet  around  his  golden  locks.  He  took  me 
kindly  by  the  hand,  and  said,  '  My  friend,  you  are  now  very 
gloomy  and  sad,  but  if  you  will  become  a  child  again,  even  as  I 
am.  you  will  have  a  bright  circlet  such  as  I  have.'  "When  I  heard 
that,  I  was  so  angry  with  myself  and  with  the  child  that  I  was 
scorched  by  my  inward  fire.  Xow  would  I  fain  fly  up  to  the  sun 
to  fetch  rays  from  him,  but  the  rays  drove  me  back  with  these 
words  :  '  Beturn  thither  whence  thou  earnest,  thou  dark  fire  of 
envy,  for  the  sun  lightens  only  in  love ;  the  greedy  earth,  indeed, 
sometimes   turns   his   mild    light   into   scorching  fire.     Fly  back, 


FANCIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  245 

then,  for  with  thy  like  alone  must  thou  dwell ! '  I  fell,  and  when  I 
recovered  myself  I  was  glimmering  coldly  above  the  stagnant 
waters." 

While  they  were  talking,  the  child  had  fallen  asleep ;  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  world,  nor  of  men,  and  he  could  make  noth- 
ing of  their  stories.  Weariness  had  spoken  a  more  intelligible  lan- 
guage to  him  ;   that  he  understood,  and  had  fallen  asleep. 

XII. 

Softly  and  soundly  he  slept  till  the  rosy  morning  clouds  stood 
upon  the  mountain,  and  announced  the  coming  of  their  lord  the 
sun.  But  as  soon  as  the  tidings  spread  over  field  and  wood,  the 
thousand-voiced  echo  awoke,  and  sleep  was  no  more  to  be  thought 
of.  And  soon  did  the  royal  sun  himself  arise ;  at  first  his  daz- 
zling diadem  alone  appeared  above  the  mountains ;  at  length  he 
stood  upon  their  summit  in  the  full  majesty  of  his  beauty,  in 
all  the  charms  of  eternal  youth,  bright  and  glorious,  his  kindly 
glance  embracing  every  creature  of  earth,  from  the  stately  oak 
to  the  blade  of  grass  bending  under  the  foot  of  the  wayfaring  man. 

Then  arose  from  every  breast,  from  every  throat,  the  joyous 
song  of  praise  ;  and  it  was  as  if  the  whole  plain  and  wood  were 
become  a  temple,  whose  roof  was  the  heaven,  whose  altar  the 
mountain,  whose  congregation  all  creatures,  whose  priest  the  sun. 

But  the  child  walked  forth  and  was  glad ;  for  the  birds  sang 
sweetly,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  everything  sported  and  danced 
out  of  mere  joy  to  be  alive.  Here  flew  two  finches  through  the 
thicket,  and,  twittering,  pursued  each  other;  there  the  young 
buds  burst  asunder,  and  the  tender  •  leaves  peeped  out,  and  ex- 
panded themselves  in  the  warm  sun,  as  if  they  would  abide  in  his 
glance  forever ;  here  a  dew-drop  trembled,  sparkling  and  twink- 
ling on  a  blade  of  grass,  and  knew  not  that  beneath  him  stood  a 
little  moss  who  was  thirsting  after  him  ;  there  troops  of  flies  flew 
aloft,  as  if  they  would  soar  far  over  the  wood ;  and  so  all  was  life 
and  motion,  and  the  child's  heart  joyed  to  see  it. 


246  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

He  sat  down  on  a  little  smooth  plot  of  turf,  shaded  by  the 
branches  of  a  nut-bush,  and  thought  he  should  now  sin  the  cup  of 
his  delight  drop  by  drop.  And  first  he  plucked  down  some  bram- 
bles which  threatened  him  with  their  prickles  ;  then  he  bent  aside 
some  branches  which  concealed  the  view ;  then  he  removed  the 
stones,  so  that  he  might  stretch  out  Ins  feet  at  full  length  on  the 
soft  turf;  and  when  he  had  done  all  this,  he  bethought  himself 
what  was  yet  to  do  ;  and  as  he  found  nothing  he  stood  tip  to  look 
for  his  acquaintance,  the  dragon-fly,  and  to  beg  her  to  guide  him 
once  more  out  of  the  wood  into  the  open  field.  About  midway 
he  met  her,  and  she  began  to  excuse  herself  for  having  fallen 
asleep  in  the  night.  The  child  thought  not  of  the  past,  were  it 
even  but  a  minute  ago,  so  earnestly  did  he  now  wish  to  get  out 
from  among  the  thick  and  close  trees  ;  for  his  heart  beat  high,  and 
he  felt  as  if  he  should  breathe  freer  in  the  open  ground.  The 
dragon-fly  flew  on  before,  and  showed  him  the  way  as  far  as 
the  outermost  verge  of  the  wood,  whence  the  child  could  espy 
his  own  little  hut,  and  then  flew  away  to  her  playfellows. 

XIII. 

The  child  walked  forth  alone  upon  the  fresh  dewy  cornfield. 
A  thousand  little  suns  glittered  in  his  eyes,  and  a  lark  soared,  war- 
bling, above  his  head.  And  the  lark  proclaimed  the  joys  of  the 
coming  year,  and  awakened  endless  hopes,  while  she  soared  cir- 
cling higher  and  higher,  till  at  length  her  song  was  like  the  soft 
whisper  of  an  angel  holding  converse  with  the  spring  under  the 
blue  arch  of  heaven. 

The  child  had  seen  the  earth-colored  little  bird  rise  up  before  him, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  earth  had  sent  her  forth  from  her 
bosom  as  a  messenger  to  carry  her  joy  and  her  thanks  up  to  the 
sun,  because  he  had  turned  his  beaming  countenance  again  upon 
her  in  love  and  bounty.  And  the  lark  hung  poised  above  the 
hope-giving  field,  and  warbled  her  clear  and  joyous  song. 

She  sang  of  the  loveliness  of  the  rosy  dawn,  and  the  fresh 


FANCIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  247 

brilliancy  of  the  earliest  sunbeams;  of  the  gladsome  springing  of 
the  young  flowers,  and  the  vigorous  shooting  of  the  corn  ;  and  her 
song  pleased  the  child  beyond  measure.  But  the  lark  wheeled  in 
higher  and  higher  circles,  and  her  song  sounded  softer  and  sweeter. 

And  now  she  sang  of  the  first  delights  of  early  love,  of  wander- 
ings together  on  the  sunny  fresh  hill-tops,  and  of  the  sweet  pic- 
tures and  visions  that  arise  out  of  the  blue  and  misty  distance. 
The  child  understood  not  rightly  what  he  heard,  and  fain  would 
he  have  understood,  for  he  thought  that  even  in  such  visions  must 
be  wondrous  delight.  He  gazed  aloft  after  the  unwearied  bird,  but 
she  had  disappeared  in  the  morning  mist. 

Then  the  child  leaned  his  head  on  one  shoulder  to  listen  if  he 
could  no  longer  hear  the  little  messenger  of  spring ;  and  he  could 
just  catch  the  distant  and  quivering  notes  in  which  she  sang  of 
the  fervent  longing  after  the  clear  element  of  freedom  ;  after  the 
pure  all-present  light ;  and  of  the  blessed  foretaste  of  this  desired 
enfranchisement,  of  this  blending  in  the  sea  of  celestial  happiness. 

Yet  longer  did  he  listen,  for  the  tones  of  her  song  carried  him 
there,  where,  as  yet,  his  thoughts  had  never  reached,  and  he  felt 
himself  happier  in  this  short  and  imperfect  flight  than  ever  he 
had  felt  before.  But  the  lark  now  dropped  suddenly  to  the  earth, 
for  her  little  body  was  too  heavy  for  the  ambient  ether,  and  her 
wings  were  not  large  nor  strong  enough  for  the  pure  element. 

Then  the  red  corn-poppies  laughed  at  the  homely-looking  bird, 
and  cried  to  one  another  and  to  the  surrounding  blades  of  corn  in  a 
shrill  voice,  "  Now,  indeed,  you  may  see  what  comes  of  flying  so 
high,  and  striving  and  straining  after  mere  air ;  people  only  lose 
their  time,  and  bring  back  nothing  but  weary  wings  and  an  empty 
stomach.  That  vulgar-looking,  ill-dressed  little  creature  would 
fain  raise  herself  above  us  all,  and  has  kept  up  a  mighty  noise. 
And  now,  there  she  lies  on  the  ground,  and  can  hardly  breathe, 
while  we  have  stood  still  where  we  are,  sure  of  a  good  meal,  and 
have  stayed  like  people  of  sense  where  there  is  something  sub- 
stantial to  be  had  ;  and  in  the  time  she  has  been  fluttering  and 
singing,  we  have  grown  a  good  deal  taller  and  fatter." 


248  CHILD  LIFE   IN  PHOSE. 

The  other  little  red-caps  chattered  and  screamed  their  assent  so 
loud  that  the  child's  ears  tingled,  and  he  wished  he  could  chastise 
them  for  their  spiteful  jeers ;  when  a  cyane  said,  in  a  soft  voice, 
to  her  younger  playmates,  "  Dear  friends,  be  not  led  astray  by 
outward  show,  nor  by  discourse  which  regards  only  outward  show. 
The  lark  is  indeed  weary,  and  the  space  into  which  she  has  soared 
is  void  ;  but  the  void  is  not  what  the  lark  sought,  nor  is  the 
seeker  returned  empty  home.  She  strove  after  light  and  freedom, 
and  light  and  freedom  has  she  proclaimed.  She  left  the  earth 
and  its  enjoyments,  but  she  has  drunk  of  the  pure  air  of  heaven, 
and  has  seen  that  it  is  not  the  earth,  but  the  sun,  that  is  steadfast. 
And  if  earth  has  called  her  back,  it  can  keep  nothing  of  her  but 
what  is  its  own.  Her  sweet  voice  and  her  soaring  wings  belong 
to  the  sun,  and  will  enter  into  light  and  freedom  long  after  the 
foolish  prater  shall  have  sunk  and  been  buried  in  the  dark  prison 
of  the  earth." 

And  the  lark  heard  her  wise  and  friendly  discourse,  and,  with 
renewed  strength,  she  sprang  once  more  into  the  clear  and  beautiful 
blue. 

Then  the  child  clapped  his  little  hands  for  joy  that  the  sweet 
bird  had  flown  up  again,  and  that  the  red-caps  must  hold  their 
tongues  for  shame. 

xrv. 

And  the  child  was  become  happy  and  joyful,  and  breathed 
freely  again,  and  thought  no  more  of  returning  to  his  hut ;  for 
he  saw  that  nothing  returned  inwards,  but  rather  that  all  strove 
outwards  into  the  free  air,  —  the  rosy  apple-blossoms  from  their 
narrow  buds,  and  the  gurgling  notes  from  the  narrow  breast  of  the 
lark.  The  germs  burst  open  the  folding  doors  of  the  seeds,  and 
broke  through  the  heavy  pressure  of  the  earth  in  order  to  get  at 
the  Ught ;  the  grasses  tore  asunder  their  bands  and  their  slender 
blades  sprang  upward.  Even  the  rocks  were  become  gentle,  and 
allowed  little  mosses  to  peep  out  from  their  sides,  as  a  sign  that 
they  would  not  remain  impenetrably  closed    forever.      And    the 


FANCIES  OF  CniuB  LIFE.  249 

flowers  sent  out  color  and  fragrance  into  the  whole  world,  for  they 
kept  not  their  best  for  themselves,  but  would  imitate  the  sun  and 
the  stars,  which  poured  their  warmth  and  radiance  over  the  spring. 
And  many  a  little  gnat  and  beetle  burst  the  narrow  cell  in  which 
it  was  inclosed,  and  crept  out  slowly,  and,  half  asleep,  unfolded 
and  shook  its  tender  wings,  and  soon  gained  strength,  and  flew 
off  to  untried  delights.  And  as  the  butterflies  came  forth  from 
their  chrysalids  in  all  their  gayety  and  splendor,  so  did  every  hum- 
bled and  suppressed  aspiration  and  hope  free  itself,  and  boldly 
launch  into  the  open  and  flowing  sea  of  spring. 

German  of  Carove. 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 

HANS   CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN, 

POET    AND    NOVELIST    OF     DENMARK. 

MY  life  is  a  lovely  story,  happy  and  full  of  incident.  If, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  went  forth  into  the  world  poor  and 
friendless,  a  good  fairy  had  met  me  and  said,  "  Choose  now  thy 
own  course  through  life,  and  the  object  for  which  thou  wilt  strive, 
and  then,  according  to  the  development  of  thy  mind,  and  as 
reason  requires,  I  will  guide  and  defend  thee  to  its  attainment," 
my  fate  could  not,  even  then,  have  been  directed  more  happily, 
more  prudently,  or  better.  The  history  of  my  life  will  say  to  the 
world  what  it  says  to  me,  —  There  is  a  loving  God,  who  directs 
all  things  for  the  best. 

In  the  year  1805  there  lived  at  Odense,  in  a  small  mean  room, 
a  young  married  couple,  who  were  extremely  attached  to  each 
other ;  he  was  a  shoemaker,  scarcely  twenty-two  years  old,  a  man 
of  a  richly  gifted  and  truly  poetical  mind.  His  wife,  a  few  years 
older  than  himself,  was  ignorant  of  life  and  of  the  world,  but 
possessed  a  heart  full  of  love.  The  young  man  had  himself  made 
his  shoemaking  bench,  and  the  bedstead  with  which  he  began 
housekeeping ;  this  bedstead  he  had  made  out  of  the  wooden 
frame  which  had  borne  only  a  short  time  before  the  coffin  of  the 
deceased  Count  Trampe,  as  he  lay  in  state,  and  the  remnants  of 
the  black  cloth  on  the  wood-work  kept  the  fact  still  in  remem- 
brance. 

Instead  of  a  noble  corpse,  surrounded  by  crape  and  waxlights, 
here  lay,  on  the  2d  of  April,  1805,  a  living  and  weeping  child, 


254  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

—  that  was  myself,  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  During  the  first 
day  of  my  existence  my  father  is  said  to  have  sat  by  the  bed  and 
read  aloud  in  Holberg,  but  I  cried  all  the  time.  "  Wilt  thou  go  to 
sleep,  or  listen  quietly  1 "  it  is  reported  that  my  father  asked  in 
joke  ;  but  I  still  cried  on ;  and  even  in  the  church,  when  I  was 
taken  to  be  baptized,  I  cried  so  loudly  that  the  preacher,  who  was 
a  passionate  man,  said,  "  The  young  one  screams  like  a  cat '.  " 
which  words  my  mother  never  forgot.  A  poor  emigrant,  Gomar, 
who  stood  as  godfather,  consoled  her  in  the  mean  time  by  saying 
that,  the  louder  I  cried  as  a  child,  all  the  more  beautifully  should  I 
sing  when  I  grew  older. 

Our  little  room,  which  was  almost  filled  with  the  shoemaker's 
bench,  the  bed,  and  my  crib,  was  the  abode  of  my  childhood ;  the 
walls,  however,  were  covered  with  pictures,  and  over  the  work- 
bench was  a  cupboard  containing  books  and  songs ;  the  little 
kitchen  was  full  of  shining  plates  and  metal  pans,  and  by  means 
of  a  ladder  it  was  possible  to  go  out  on  the  roof,  where,  in  the 
gutters  between  it  and  the  neighbor's  house,  there  stood  a  great 
chest  filled  with  soil,  my  mother's  sole  garden,  and  where  she 
grew  her  vegetables.  In  my  story  of  the  "  Snow  Queen  "  that 
garden  still  blooms. 

I  was  the  only  child,  and  was  extremely  spoiled ;  but  I  contin- 
ually heard  from  my  mother  how  very  much  happier  I  was  than 
she  had  been,  and  that  I  was  brought  up  like  a  nobleman's  child. 
She,  as  a  child,  had  been  driven  out  by  her  parents  to  beg ;  and 
once,  when  she  was  not  able  to  do  it,  she  had  sat  for  a  whole  day 
under  a  bridge  and  wept. 

My  father  gratified  me  in  all  my  wishes.  I  possessed  his  whole 
heart ;  he  lived  for  me.  On  Sundays  he  made  me  perspective- 
glasses,  theatres,  and  pictures  which  could  be  changed ;  he  read  to 
me  from  Holberg's  plays  and  the  "Arabian  Tales  "  ;  it  was  only 
in  such  moments  as  these  that  I  can  remember  to  have  seen  him 
really  cheerful,  for  he  never  felt  himself  happy  in  his  life  and  as 
a  handicraftsman.  His  parents  had  been  country  people  in  good 
circumstances,  but  upon  whom  many  misfortunes  had  fallen,  —  the 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  255 

f.attle  had  died  ;  the  farm-house  had  been  burned  down ;  and, 
lastly,  the  husband  had  lost  his  reason.  On  this  the  wife  had 
removed  with  him  to  Odense,  and  there  put  her  son,  whose  mind 
was  full  of  intelligence,  apprentice  to  a  shoemaker ;  it  could  not  be 
otherwise,  although  it  was  his  ardent  wish  to  attend  the  grammar 
school,  where  he  might  learn  Latin.  A  few  well-to-do  citizens  had 
at  one  time  spoken  of  this,  of  clubbing  together  to  raise  a  suffi- 
cient sum  to  pay  for  his  board  and  education,  and  thus  giving  him 
a  start  in  life ;  but  it  never  went  beyond  words.  My  poor  father 
saw  his  dearest  wish  unfulfilled ;  and  he  never  lost  the  remem- 
brance of  it.  I  recollect  that  once,  as  a  child,  I  saw  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  it  was  when  a  youth  from  the  grammar  school  came  to 
our  house  to  be  measured  for  a  new  pair  of  boots,  and  showed  us 
his  books  and  told  us  what  he  learned. 

"  That  was  the  path  upon  which  I  ought  to  have  gone  !  "  said 
my  father,  kissed  me  passionately,  and  was  silent  the  whole 
evening. 

He  very  seldom  associated  with  his  equals.  He  went  out  into 
the  woods  on  Sundays,  when  he  took  me  with  him ;  he  did  not 
talk  much  when  he  was  out,  but  would  sit  silently,  sunk  in  deep 
thought,  whilst  I  ran  about  and  strung  strawberries  on  a  bent,  or 
bound  garlands.  Only  twice  in  the  year,  and  that  in  the  month 
of  May,  when  the  woods  were  arrayed  in  their  earliest  green,  did 
my  mother  go  with  us  ;  and  then  she  wore  a  cotton  gown,  which 
she  put  on  only  on  these  occasions  and  when  she  partook  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  and  which,  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  was  her 
holiday  gown.  She  always  took  home  with  her  from  the  wood  a 
great  many  fresh  beech  boughs,  which  were  then  planted  behind 
the  polished  stone.  Later  in  the  year  sprigs  of  St.  John's  wort 
were  stuck  into  the  chinks  of  the  beams,  and  we  considered  their 
growth  as  omens  whether  our  lives  would  be  long  or  short.  Green 
branches  and  pictures  ornamented  our  little  room,  which  my 
mother  always  kept  neat  and  clean;  she  took  great  pride  in  always 
having  the  bed  linen  and  the  curtains  very  white. 

One  of  my  first  recollections,  although  very  slight  in  itself,  had 


256  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

for  me  a  good  deal  of  importance,  from  the  power  by  which  the 
fancy  of  a  child  impressed  it  upon  my  soul ;  it  was  a  family  fes- 
tival, and  can  you  guess  where  1  In  that  very  place  in  Odense, 
in  that  house  which  1  had  always  looked  on  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling, just  as  boys  in  Paris  may  have  looked  at  the  Bastile,  —  in  the 
Odense  house  of  correction. 

My  parents  were  acquainted  with  the  jailer,  who  invited  them 
to  a  family  dinner,  and  I  was  to  go  with  them.  I  was  at  that 
time  still  so  small  that  I  was  carried  when  we  returned  home. 

The  House  of  Correction  was  for  me  a  great  storehouse  of 
stories  about  robbers  and  thieves ;  often  I  had  stood,  but  always  at 
a  safe  distance,  and  listened  to  the  singing  of  the  men  within  and 
of  the  women  spinning  at  their  wheels. 

I  went  with  my  parents  to  the  jailer's ;  the  heavy  iron-bolted 
gate  was  opened  and  again  locked  with  the  key  from  the  rattling 
bunch ;  we  mounted  a  steep  staircase,  —  we  ate  and  drank,  and 
two  of  the  prisoners  waited  at  the  table ;  they  could  not  induce, 
me  to  taste  of  anything,  the  sweetest  things  I  pushed  away ;  my 
mother  told  them  I  was  sick,  and  I  was  laid  on  a  bed,  where  I 
heard  the  spinning-wheels  humming  near  by  and  merry  singing, 
whether  in  my  own  fancy  or  in  reality  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  know 
that  I  was  afraid,  and  was  kept  on  the  stretch  all  the  time ;  and 
yet  I  was  in  a  pleasant  humor,  making  up  stories  of  how  I  had 
entered  a  castle  full  of  robbers.  Late  in  the  night  mj'  parents 
went  home,  carrying  me  ;  the  rain,  for  it  was  rough  weather,  dash- 
ing against  my  face. 

Odense  was  in  my  childhood  quite  another  town  from  what  it 
is  now,  when  it  has  shot  ahead  of  Copenhagen,  with  its  water 
carried  through  the  town,  and  I  know  not  what  else  !  Then  it  was 
a  hundred  years  behind  the  times  ;  many  customs  and  manners 
prevailed  which  long  since  disappeared  from  the  capital.  When 
the  guilds  removed  their  signs,  they  went  in  procession  with  flying 
banners  and  with  lemons  dressed  in  ribbons  stuck  on  their  swords. 
A  harlequin  with  bells  and  a  wooden  sword  ran  at  the  head  ;  one 
nf  them,  an  old  fellow,  Hans  Struh,  made  a  great  hit  by  his  merry 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  257 

chatter  .and  his  face,  which  was  painted  black,  except  the  nose, 
that  kept  its  genuine  red  color.  My  mother  was  so  pleased  with 
hirn  that  she  tried  to  find  out  if  he  was  in  any  way  related  to  us ; 
but  I  remember  very  well  that  I,  with  all  the  pride  of  an  aris- 
tocrat, protested  against  any  relationship  with  the  "  fool." 

In  my  sixth  year  came  the  great  comet  of  1811;  and  my 
mother  told  me  that  it  would  destroy  the  earth,  or  that  other 
horrible  things  threatened  us.  I  listened  to  all  these  stories  and 
fully  believed  them.  With  my  mother  and  some  of  the  neigh- 
boring women  I  stood  in  St.  Canut's  Churchyard  and  looked  at 
the  frightful  and  mighty  fire-ball  with  its  large  shining  tail. 

All  talked  about  the  signs  of  evil  and  the  clay  of  doom.  My 
father  joined  us,  but  he  was  not  of  the  others'  opinion  at  all,  and 
gave  them  a  correct  and  sound  explanation ;  then  my  mother 
sighed,  the.  women  shook  their  heads,  my  father  laughed  and  went 
away.  I  caught  the  idea  that  my  father  was  not  of  our  faith,  and 
that  threw  me  into  a  great  fright.  In  the  evening  my  mother  and 
my  old  grandmother  talked  together,  and  I  do  not  know  how  she 
explained  it ;  but  I  sat  in  her  lap,  looked  into  her  mild  eyes,  and 
expected  every  moment  that  the  comet  would  rush  down,  and  the 
day  of  judgment  come. 

The  mother  of  my  father  came  daily  to  our  house,  were  it  only 
for  a  moment,  in  order  to  see  her  little  grandson.  I  was  her  joy 
and  her  delight.  She  was  a  quiet  and  most  amiable  old  woman, 
with  mild  blue' eyes  and  a  fine  figure,  which  life  had  severely  tried. 
From  having  been  the  wife  of  a  countryman  in  easy  circumstances 
she  had  now  fallen  into  great  poverty,  and  dwelt  with  her  feeble- 
minded husband  in  a  little  house,  which  was  the  last  poor  remains 
of  their  property.  I  never  saw  her  shed  a  tear ;  but  it  made  all 
the  deeper  impression  upon  me  when  she  quietly  sighed,  and  told 
me  about  her  own  mother's  mother,  —  how  she  had  been  a  rich, 
noble  lady,  in  the  city  of  Cassel,  and  that  she  had  married  a 
"  comedy-player,"  —  that  was  as  she  expressed  it,  —  and  run  away 
from  parents  and  home,  for  all  of  which  her  posterity  had  now  to 
do  penance.     I  never  can  recollect  that  I  heard  her  mention  the 

Q 


258  CHILI)   LIFE  IX  I'ltOSE. 

family  name  of  her  grandmother  ;  but  her  own  maiden  name  was 
Nommesen.  She  was  employed  to  take  care  of  the  garden  belong- 
ing to  a  lunatic  asylum ;  and  every  Sunday  evening  she  brought  us 
some  flowers,  which  they  gave  her  permission  to  take  home  with 
her.  These  flowers  adorned  my  mother's  cupboard ;  but  stiU  they 
were  mine,  and  to  me  it  was  allowed  to  put  them  in  the  glass  of 
water.  How  great  was  this  pleasure  !  She  brought  them  all  to  me  ; 
she  loved  me  with  her  whole  soul.     I  knew  it,  and  I  understood  it. 

She  burned,  twice  in  the  year,  the  green  rubbish  of  the  garden ; 
on  such  occasions  she  took  me  with  her  to  the  asylum,  and  I  lay 
upon  the  great  heaps  of  green  leaves  and  pea-straw  ;  I  had  many 
flowers  to  play  with,  and  —  which  was  a  circumstance  upon  which 
I  set  great  importance —  I  had  here  better  food  to  eat  than  I  could 
expect  at  home. 

All  such  patients  as  were  harmless  were  permitted  to  go  freely 
about  the  court ;  they  often  came  to  us  in  the  garden,  and  with 
curiosity  and  terror  I  listened  to  them  and  followed  them  about ; 
nay,  I  even  ventured  so  far  as  to  go  with  the  attendants  to  those 
who  were  raving  mad.  A  long  passage  led  to  their  cells.  On  one 
occasion,  when  the  attendants  were  out  of  the  way,  I  lay  down 
upon  the  floor,  and  peeped  through  the  crack  of  the  door  into  one 
of  these  cells.  I  saw  within  a  lady  almost  naked,  lying  on  her 
straw  bed ;  her  hair  hung  down  over  her  shoulders,  and  she  sang 
with  a  very  beautiful  voice.  All  at  once  she  sprang  up,  and  threw 
herself  against  the  door  where  I  lay  ;  the  little  valve  through 
which  she  received  her  food  burst  open ;  she  stared  down  upon 
me,  and  stretched  out  her  long  arm  toward  me.  I  screamed  for 
terror,  —  I  felt  the  tips  of  her  fingers  touching  my  clothes,  —  1  was 
half  dead  when  the  attendant  came  ;  and  even  in  later  years  that 
sight  and  that  feeling  remained  within  my  soul. 

I  was  very  much  afraid  of  my  weak-minded  grandfather.  Only 
once  had  he  ever  spoken  to  me,  and  then  he  had  made  use  of  the 
formal  pronoun,  "you."  He  employed  himself  in  cutting  out  of 
wood  strange  figures,  —  men  with  beasts'  heads  and  beasts  with 
wings ;  these  he  packed  in  a  basket  and  carried  them  out  into  the 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  259 

country,  where  he  was  everywhere  well  received  by  the  peasant- 
women,  because  he  gave  to  them  and  their  children  these  strange 
toys.  One  day,  when  he  was  returning  to  Odense,  I  heard  the 
boys  in  the  street  shouting  after  him  ;  I  hid  myself  behind  a  flight 
of  steps  in  terror,  for  I  knew  that  I  was  of  his  flesh  and  blood. 

I  very  seldom  played  with  other  boys ;  even  at  school  I  took 
little  interest  in  their  games,  but  remained  sitting  within  doors. 
At  home  I  had  playthings  enough,  which  my  father  made  for  me. 
My  greatest  delight  was  in  making  clothes  for  dolls,  or  in  stretch- 
ing out  one  of  my  mother's  aprons  between  the  wall  and  two  sticks 
before  a  currant-bush  which  I  had  planted  in  the  yard,  and  thus 
to  gaze  in  between  the  sun-illumined  leaves.  I  was  a  singularly 
dreamy  child,  and  so  constantly  went  about  with  my  eyes  shut,  as 
at  last  to  give  the  impression  of  having  weak  sight,  although  the 
sense  of  sight  was  especially  cultivated  by  me. 

An  old  woman-teacher,  who  had  an  A  B  C  school,  taught  me 
the  letters,  to  spell,  and  "  to  read  right,"  as  it  was  called.  She 
used  to  have  her  seat  in  a  high-backed  arm-chair  near  the  clock, 
from  which  at  every  full  stroke  some  little  automata  came  out. 
She  made  use  of  a  big  rod,  which  she  always  carried  with  her. 
The  school  consisted  mostly  of  girls.  It  was  the  custom  of  the 
school  for  all  to  spell  loudly  and  in  as  high  a  key  as  possible.  The 
mistress  dared  not  beat  me,  as  my  mother  had  made  it  a  condition 
of  my  going  that  I  should  not  be  touched.  One  day  having  got  a 
hit  of  the  rod,  I  rose  immediately,  took  my  book,  and  without 
further  ceremony  went  home  to  my  mother,  asked  that  I  might  go 
to  another  school,  and  that  was  granted  me.  My  mother  sent  me 
to  Carsten's  school  for  boys  ;  there  was  also  one  girl  there,  a  little 
one  somewhat  older  than  I ;  we  became  very  good  friends  ;  she 
used  to  speak  of  the  advantage  it  was  to  be  to  her  in  going  into 
service,  and  that  she  went  to  school  especially  to  learn  arithmetic, 
for,  as  her  mother  told  her,  she  could  then  become  dairy-maid  in 
some  great  manor. 

"  That  you  can  become  in  my  castle  when  I  am  a  nobleman ! " 
said  I ;  and  she  laughed  at  me,  and  told  me  that  I  was  only  a  poor 


260  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

boy.  One  day  I  had  drawn  something  which  I  called  my  castle, 
and  I  told  her  that  I  was  a  changed  child  of  high  birth,  and  that 
the  angels  of  God  came  down  and  spoke  to  me.     I  wanted  tn 

make  her  stare  as  I  did  with  the  old  women  in  the  hospital,  but 
she  would  not  be  caught.  She  looked  ipaeerly  at  me,  and  said  to 
one  of  the  other  boys  standing  near,  "  He  is  a  fool,  like  his  grand- 
papa," and  I  shivered  at  the  words.  I  had  said  it  to  give  me  an 
air  of  importance  in  their  eyes ;  but  I  failed,  and  only  made  them 
think  that  I  was  insane  like  my  grandfather. 

I  never  spoke  to  her  again  about  these  things,  but  we  were  no 
longer  the  same  playmates  as  before.  I  was  the  smallest  in  the 
school,  and  my  teacher,  Mr.  Carsten,  always  took  me  by  the  hand 
while  the  other  boys  played,  that  I  might  not  be  run  over  :  he 
loved  me  much,  gave  me  cakes  and  flowers,  and  tapped  me  on  the 
cheeks.  One  of  the  older  boys  did  not  know  his  lesson,  and  was 
punished  by  being  placed,  book  in  hand,  upon  the  school-table, 
around  which  we  were  seated  ;  but  seeing  me  cpjite  inconsolable  at 
this  punishment,  he  pardoned  the  culprit. 

The  poor  old  teacher  became,  later  in  life,  telegraph-director  at 
Thorseng,  where  he  still  lived  until  a  few  years  since.  It  is  said 
that  the  old  man,  when  showing  the  visitors  around,  told  them 
■with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  Well,  well,  you  will  perhaps  not  believe 
that  such  a  poor  old  man  as  I  was  the  first  teacher  of  one  of  our 
most  renowned  poets  !  " 

Sometimes,  during  the  harvest,  my  mother  went  into  the  field  to 
glean.  I  accompanied  her,  and  we  went,  like  Ruth  in  the  Bible, 
to  glean  in  the  rich  fields  of  Boaz.  One  day  we  went  to  a  place 
the  bailiff  of  which  was  well  known  for  being  a  man  of  a  rude  and 
savage  disposition.  We  saw  him  coming  with  a  huge  whip  in  his 
hand,  and  my  mother  and  all  the  others  ran  away.  I  had  wooden 
shoes  on  my  bare  feet,  and  in  my  haste  I  lost  these,  and  then  the 
thorns  pricked  me  so  that  I  could  not  run,  and  thus  I  was  left 
behind  and  alone.  The  man  came  up  and  lifted  his  whip  to  strike 
me,  when  I  looked  him  in  the  face  and  involuntarily  exclaimed, 
"  How  dare  you  strike  me,  when  God  can  see  it  1 " 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  261 

The  strong,  stern  man  looked  at  me,  and  at  once  became  mild ; 
he  patted  me  on  my  cheeks,  asked  me  my  name,  and  gave  me 
money. 


When  I  brought  this  to  my  mother  and  showed  it  her,  she 
said  to  the  others,  "  He  is  a  strange  child,  my  Hans  Christian ; 
everybody  is  kind  to  him.  This  bad  fellow  even  has  given  him 
money." 


262  CHILD  LIFE  IN  FUGUE. 


MADAME   MICHELET, 

FRENCH  AUTHOR,  WIFE  OF  THE  WELL-KNOWN  WRITER,  MICHELET. 

AMONG  my  earliest  recollections,  dating  (if  my  memory  de- 
ceive me  not)  from  the  time  when  I  was  between  the  ages 
of  four  and  five,  is  that  of  being  seated  beside  a  grave,  industrious 
person,  who  seemed  to  be  constantly  watching  me.  Her  beautiful 
but  stern  countenance  impressed  one  chiefly  by  the  peculiar  ex- 
pression of  the  light  blue  eyes,  so  rare  in  Southern  Europe.  Their 
gaze  was  lLke  that  which  has  looked  in  youth  across  vast  plains, 
wide  horizons,  and  great  rivers.  This  lady  was  my  mother,  born 
in  Louisiana,  of  English  parentage. 

I  had  constant  toil  before  me,  strangely  unbroken  for  so  young 
a  child.  At  six  years  of  age,  I  knit  my  own  stockings,  by  and 
by  my  brothers'  also,  walking  up  and  down  the  shady  path.  I  did 
not  care  to  go  farther  ;  I  was  uneasy  if.  when  I  turned,  I  could 
not  see  the  green  blind  at  my  mother's  window. 

Our  lowly  bouse  had  an  easterly  aspect.  At  its  northeast 
corner,  iny  mother  sat  at  work,  with  her  little  people  around  her  ; 
my  father  had  his  study  at  the  opposite  end.  towards  the  south. 
I  began  to  pick  up  my  alphabet  with  him  ;  for  I  had  double  tasks. 
I  studied  my  books  in  the  intervals  of  sewing  or  knitting.  My 
brothers  ran  away  to  play  after  lessons  ;  but  I  returned  to  my 
mother's  work-room.  I  liked  very  well,  however,  to  trace  on  my 
slate  the  great  bars  which  are  called  "  jambages."  It  seemed  to 
me  as  if  I  drew  something,  from  within  myself,  which  came  to  the 
pencil's  point.  When  my  bars  began  to  look  regular,  I  paused 
often  to  admire  what  I  had  done  ;  then,  if  my  dear  papa  would 
lean  towards  me,  and  say,  "  Very  well,  little  princess."  I  drew 
myself  up  with  pride. 

My  father  had  a  sweet  and  penetrating  voice  ;    his  dark  com- 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD   LIFE. 


263 


plexion  showed  his  Southern  origin,  which  also  betrayed  itself  in 
the  passionate  fire  of  his  eyes,  dark,  with  black  lashes,  which 
softened  their  glance.  With  all  their  electric  fire,  they  were  not 
wanting  in  an  indefinable  expression  of  tenderness  and  sweetness. 
At  sixty  years  of  age,  after  a  life  of  strange,  and  even  tragic,  inci- 
dents, his  heart  remained  ever  young  and  light,  benevolent  to  all, 
disposed  to  confide  in  human  nature,  —  sometimes  too  easily. 

I  had  none  of  the  enjoyments  of  city-bred  children,  and  less  still 
of  that  childish  wit  which  is  sure  to  win  maternal  admiration  for 
every  word  which  falls  from  the  lips  of  the  little  deities.  Mother 
Nature  alone  gave  me  a  welcome,  and  yet  my  early  days  were  not 
sad ;  all  the  country-side  looked  so  lovely  to  me. 

Just  beyond  the  farm  lay  the  cornfields  which  belonged  to  us ; 


^S^SHI 


they  were  of  no  great  extent,  but  to  me  they  seemed  infinite. 
When  Marianne,  proud  of  her  master's  possessions,  would  say, 
"  Look,  miss,  there,  there,  and  farther  on,  —  all  is  yours,"  I  was 
really  frightened  ;  for  I  saw  the  moving  grain,  undulating  like  the 
ocean,  and  stretching  far  away.  I  liked  better  to  believe  that  the 
world  ended  at  our  meadow.  Sometimes  my  father  went  across 
the  fields  to  see  what  the  reapers  were  doing,  and  then  I  hid  my 
face  in  Marianne's  apron,  and  cried,  "  Not  so  far,  not  so  far !  papa 
will  be  lost !  " 

I  was  then  five  years  old.     That  cry  was  the  childish  expression 
of  a  sentiment,  the  shadow  of  which  gained  on  me  year  by  year,  — 


264  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

the  fear  that  I  might  lose  my  father.  I  desired  to  please,  to  be 
praised,  and  to  be  loved.  I  felt  so  drawn  towards  my  mother, 
that  I  sometimes  jumped  from  my  seat  to  give  her  a  kiss ;  but 
when  I  met  her  look,  and  saw  her  eyes,  pale  and  clear  as  a  silvery 
lake,  I  recoiled,  and  sat  down  quietly.  Years  have  passed,  ami 
yet  I  still  regret  those  joys  of  childhood  which  I  never  knew,  —  a 
mother's  caresses.  My  education  might  have  been  so  easy  ;  my 
mother  might  have  understood  my  heart,  —  a  kiss  is  sometimes 
eloquent ;  and  in  a  daily  embrace  she  would  perhaps  have  guessed 
the  thoughts  I  was  too  young  to  utter,  and  would  have  learned 
how  faithfully  I  loved  her. 

No  such  freedom  was  allowed  us.  The  morning  kiss  and  famil- 
iar speech  with  one's  parents  are  permitted  at  the  North,  but  are 
less  frequent  in  the  South  of  France.  Authority  overshadows 
family  affection.  My  father,  who  was  an  easy  man  and  loved  to 
talk,  might  have  disregarded  such  regulations  ;  but  my  mother 
kept  us  at  a  distance.  It  made  one  thoughtful  and  reserved  to 
watch  her  going  out  and  coming  in,  with  her  noble  air,  severe  and 
silent.     We  felt  we  must  be  careful  not  to  give  cause  for  blame. 

My  mother  could  spin  like  a  fairy.  All  winter  she  sat  at  her 
wheel ;  and  perhaps  her  wandering  thoughts  were  soothed  by  the 
gentle  monotonous  music  of  its  humming.  My  father,  seeing  her 
so  beautiful  at  her  work,  secretly  ordered  a  light,  slender  spinning- 
wheel  to  be  carved  for  her  use,  which  she  found  one  morning  at 
the  foot  of  her  bed.  Her  cheek  flushed  with  pleasure  ;  she  scarcely 
dared  to  touch  it,  it  looked  so  fragile.  "  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said 
my  father ;  "  it  looks  fragile,  but  it  can  well  stand  use.  It  is 
made  of  boxwood  from  our  own  garden.  It  grew  slowly,  as  all 
things  do  that  last.  Neither  your  little  hand  nor  foot  can  injure 
it."  My  mother  took  her  finest  Flanders  flax,  of  silvery  tresses 
knotted  with  a  cherry-colored  ribbon.  The  children  made  a  circle 
round  the  wheel,  which  turned  for  the  first  time  under  my  mother's 
hands.  My  father  was  watching,  between  smiles  and  tears,  to  see 
how  dexterously  she  handled  the  distaff.  The  thread  was  invisi- 
ble, but   the  bobbin  grew  bigger.     Sly  mother  would   have  been 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  265 

contented  if  the  days  had  been  prolonged  to  four-and-twenty 
hours,  while  she  was  sitting  by  her  beautiful  wheel. 

When  we  rose  in  the  morning,  we  said  a  prayer.  We  knelt  to- 
gether ;  my  father  standing,  bareheaded,  in  the  midst.  After  that, 
what  delight  it  was  to  run  to  the  hill-top,  to  meet  the  first  rays  of 
the  sun,  and  to  hear  our  birds  singing  little  songs  about  the  welcome 
daylight !  From  the  garden,  the  orchard,  the  oaks,  and  from  the 
open  fields,  their  voices  were  heard;  and  yet,  in  my  heart,  I  hid 
more  songs  than  all  the  birds  in  the  world  would  have  known  how 
to  sing.  I  was  not  sad  by  nature.  I  had  the  instincts  of  the  lark, 
and  longed  to  be  as  happy.  Since  I  had  no  wings  to  carry  me  up 
to  the  clouds,  I  would  have  liked  to  hide  myself  like  him  among 
the  tall  grain  and  the  flax. 

One  of  my  great  enjoyments  was  to  meet  the  strong  south-winds 
that  came  to  us  from  the  ocean.  I  loved  to  struggle  with  the 
buffets  of  the  blast.  It  was  terrible,  but  sweet,  to  feel  it  tossing 
and  twisting  my  curls,  and  flinging  them  backward.  After  these 
morning  races  on  the  hills,  I  went  to  visit  the  wild  flowers,  — 
weeds  that  no  one  else  cherished ;  but  I  loved  them  better  than 
all  other  plants.  ISTear  the  water,  in  little  pools  hollowed  by  the 
rains  in  stormy  weather,  on  the  border  of  the  wood,  sprang  up, 
flourished,  and  died,  forests  of  dwarf  proportions  ;  white,  trans- 
parent stars  ;  bells  full  of  sweet  odors.  All  were  mysterious  and 
ephemeral ;  so  much  the  more  did  I  prize  and  regret  them. 

If  I  indeed  had  the  merry  disposition  of  the  lark,  I  had  also  his 
sensitive  timidity,  that  brings  him  sometimes  to  hide  between  the 
furrows  in  the  earth.  A  look,  a  word,  a  shadow,  was  enough  to 
discourage  me.  My  smiles  died  away,  I  shrunk  into  myself,  and 
did  not  dare  to  move. 

"  Why  did  my  mother  choose  three  boys,  rather  than  three 
girls,  after  I  was  born  1 "  This  problem  was  often  in  my  mind. 
Boys  only  tear  blouses,  which  they  don't  know  how  to  mend.  If 
she  had  only  thought  how  happy  I  would  be  with  a  sister,  a  dear 
little  sister  !  How  I  should  have  loved  her,  —  scolded  her  some- 
times, but  kissed  her  very  often  !  We  should  have  had  our  work 
12 


266  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

and  play  together,  thoroughly  independent  of  all  those  gentlemen, 
—  our  brothers. 

My  eldest  sister  was  too  far  from  my  age.  There  seemed  to  be 
centuries  between  us.  I  had  one  friend,  —  my  cat,  Zizi ;  but  she 
was  a  wild,  restless  creature,  and  no  companion,  for  1  could  scarcely 
hold  her  an  instant.  She  preferred  the  roof  of  the  house  to  my 
lap. 

I  became  very  thoughtful,  and  said  to  myself,  "  How  shall  I  get 
a  companion  1  and  how  do  people  make  dolls  1 "  It  did  not  occur 
to  me,  who  had  never  seen  a  toy-shop,  that  they  could  be  pur- 
chased ready-made.  My  chin  resting  on  my  hand,  I  sat  in  medi- 
tation, wondering  how  I  could  create  what  I  desired.  My  pas- 
sionate desire  overruled  my  fears,  and  I  decided  to  work  from  my 
own  inspiration. 

I  rejected  wood,  as  too  hard  to  afford  the  proper  material  for  my 
dolly.  Clay,  so  moist  and  cold,  chilled  the  warmth  of  my  inven- 
tion. I  took  some  soft,  white  linen,  and  some  clean  bran,  and 
with  them  formed  the  body.  I  was  like  the  savages,  who  desire  a 
little  god  to  worship.  It  must  have  a  head  with  eyes,  and  with 
ears  to  listen  ;  and  it  must  have  a  breast,  to  hold  its  heart.  All 
the  rest  is  less  important,  and  remains  undefined. 

I  worked  after  this  fashion,  and  rounded  my  doll's  head  by 
tying  it  firmly.  There  was  a  clearly  perceptible  neck,  —  a  little 
stiff,  perhaps  ;  a  well-developed  chest  ;  and  then  came  vague 
drapery,  which  dispensed  with  limbs.  There  were  rudiments  of 
arms,  —  not  very  graceful,  but  movable  :  indeed,  they  moved  of 
themselves.  I  was  filled  with  admiration.  Why  might  not  the 
body  move  ?  I  had  read  how  God  breathed  upon  Adam  and  Eve 
the  breath  of  life  ;  with  my  whole  heart  and  my  six  years'  strength 
I  breathed  on  the  creature  I  had  made.  I  looked  ;  she  did  not 
stir.  Never  mind.  I  was  her  mother,  and  she  loved  me  ;  that 
was  enough.  The  dangers  that  menaced  our  mutual  affection  only 
served  to  increase  it.  She  gave  me  anxiety  from  the  moment  of 
her  birth.  How  and  where  could  I  keep  her  in  safety?  Sur- 
rounded by  mischievous  boys,  sworn  enemies  to  their  sisters'  dolls, 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  267 

I  was  obliged  to  hide  mine  in  a  dark  corner  of  a  shed,  where  the 
wagons  and  carriages  were  kept.  After  being  punished,  I  could 
conceive  no  consolation  equal  to  taking  my  child  to  bed  with  me. 
To  warm  her,  I  tucked  her  into  my  little  bed,  with  the  friendly 
pussy  who  was  keeping  it  warm  for  me.  At  bedtime,  I  laid  her  on 
my  heart,  still  heaving  with  sobs  ;  and  she  seemed  to  sigh  too.  If 
I  missed  her  in  the  night,  I  became  wide  awake ;  I  hunted  for 
her,  full  of  apprehension.  Often  she  was  quite  at  the  bottom  of 
the  bed.  I  brought  her  out,  folded  her  in  my  arms,  and  fell  asleejj 
happy. 

I  liked,  in  my  extreme  loneliness,  to  believe  that  she  had  a  liv- 
ing soul.  Her  grandparents  were  not  aware  of  her  existence. 
Would  she  have  been  so  thoroughly  my  own,  if  other  people  had 
known  her  1     I  loved  better  to  hide  her  from  all  eyes. 

One  thing  was  wanting  to  my  satisfaction.  My  doll  had  a 
head,  but  no  face.  I  desired  to  look  into  her  eyes,  to  see  a  smile 
on  her  countenance  that  should  resemble  mine.  Sunday  was  the 
great  holiday,  when  everybody  did  what  they  liked.  Drawing 
and  painting  were  the  favorite  occupations.  Around  the  fire,  in 
winter  time,  the  little  ones  made  soldiers  ;  while  my  elder  brother, 
who  was  a  true  artist,  and  worked  with  the  best  colors,  painted 
dresses  and  costumes  of  various  sorts.  We  watched  his  perform- 
ances, dazzled  by  the  marvels  which  he  had  at  his  finger-ends. 

It  was  during  this  time  of  general  preoccupation  that  my 
daughter,  carefully  hidden  under  my  apron,  arrived  among  her 
uncles.  No  one  noticed  me  ;  and  I  tried,  successfully,  to  possess 
myself  of  a  brush,  with  some  colors.  But  I  could  do  nothing 
well ;  my  hand  trembled,  and  all  my  lines  were  crooked.  Then  I 
made  an  heroic  resolution,  —  to  ask  my  brother's  assistance  boldly. 
The  temptation  was  strong,  indeed,  which  led  me  to  brave  the 
malice  of  so  many  imps.  I  stepped  forward,  and,  with  a  voice 
which  I  vainly  endeavored  to  steady,  I  said,  "  Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  make  a  face  for  my  doll  1  "  My  eldest  brother  seemed 
not  at  all  surprised,  but  took  the  doll  in  his  hands  with  great 
gravity,  and  examined  it ;  then,  with  apparent  care,  chose  a  brush. 


1'CS  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

Suddenly  he  drew  across  her  countenance  two  broad  stripes  of  red 
and  black,  something  like  a  cross ;  and  gave  me  back  my  poor 
little  doll,  with  a  burst  of  laughter.  The  soft  linen  absorbed  the 
colors,  which  ran  together  in  a  great  blot.  It  was  very  dreadful 
Great  cries  followed ;  everybody  crowded  round  to  see  this  won- 
derful work.  Then  a  cousin  of  ours,  who  was  passing  Sunday 
with  us,  seized  my  treasure,  and  tossed  it  up  to  the  ceiling.  It 
fell  flat  on  the  floor.  I  picked  it  up  ;  and,  if  the  bad  boy  had  not 
taken  flight,  he  would  have  suffered,  very  likely,  from  my  resent- 
ment. 

Sad  days  were  in  store  for  us.  My  child  and  I  were  watched  in 
all  our  interviews.  Often  was  she  dragged  from  her  hiding-places 
among  the  bushes  and  in  the  high  grass.  Everybody  made  war 
upon  her,  —  even  Zizi,  the  cat,  who  shared  her  nightly  couch. 
My  brothers  sometimes  gave  the  doll  to  Zizi  as  a  plaything  :  and, 
in  my  absence,  even  she  was  not  sorry  to  claw  it,  and  roll  it  about 
on  the  garden  walks.  "When  I  next  found  it,  it  was  a  shapeless 
bunch  of  dusty  rags.  With  the  constancy  of  a  great  affection,  I 
remade  again  and  again  the  beloved  being  predestined  to  destruc- 
tion ;  and  each  time  I  pondered  how  to  create  something  more 
beautiful.  This  aiming  at  perfection  seemed  to  calm  my  grief.  I 
made  a  better  form,  and  produced  symmetrical  legs  (once,  to  my 
surprise,  the  rudiment  of  a  foot  appeared)  ;  but  the  better  my  work 
was,  the  more  bitter  the  ridicule,  and  I  began  to  be  discouraged. 

My  doll,  beyond  a  doubt,  was  in  mortal  peril.  My  brothers 
whispered  together ;  and  their  sidelong  glances  foreboded  me  no 
good.  I  felt  that  I  was  watched.  In  order  to  elude  their  vigi- 
lance, I  constantly  transferred  my  treasure  from  one  hiding-place 
to  another  ;  and  many  nights  it  lay  under  the  open  sky.  What 
jeers,  what  laughter,  had  it  been  found  ! 

To  put  an  end  to  my  torments.  I  threw  my  child  into  a  very 
dark  corner,  and  feigned  to  forget  her.  I  confess  to  a  shocking 
resolution  ;  for  an  evil  temptation  assailed  me.  But,  if  self-love 
began  to  triumph  over  my  affection  for  her,  it  was  but  as  a  mo- 
mentary flash,  a  troubled  dream.     Without  the  dear  little  being,  I 


ZIEMOUWS  GF  CHILD  LIFE.  269 

should  have  had  nothing  to  live  for.  It  was,  in  fact,  my  second 
self.  After  much  searching,  my  unlucky  doll  was  discovered.  Its 
limbs  '  were  torn  off  without  mercy ;  and  the  body,  being  tossed 
up  into  an  acacia-tree,  was  stuck  on  the  thorns.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  bring  it  down.  The  victim  hung,  abandoned  to  the  au- 
tumnal gales,  to  the  wintry  tempests,  to  the  westerly  rains,  and  to 
the  northern  snows.  I  watched  her  faithfully,  believing  that  the 
time  would  come  when  she  would  revisit  this  earth. 

In  the  spring,  the  gardener  came  to  prune  the  trees.  With  tears 
in  my  eyes,  I  said,  "  Bring  me  back  my  doll  from  those  branches." 
He  found  only  a  fragment  of  her  poor  little  dress,  torn  and  faded. 
The  sight  almost  broke  my  heart. 

All  hope  being  gone,  I  became  more  sensitive  to  the  rough  treat- 
ment of  my  brothers  ;  and  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  despair.  After  my 
life  with  her  whom  I  had  lost ;  after  my  emotions,  my  secret  joys 
and  fears,  —  I  felt  all  the  desolation  of  my  bereavement.  I  longed 
for  wings  to  fly  away.  When  my  sister  excluded  me  from  her 
sports  with  her  companions,  I  climbed  into  the  swing,  and  said  to 
the  gardener,  "  Jean,  swing  me  high,  —  higher  yet :  I  wish  to  fly 
away."     But  I  was  soon  frightened  enough  to  beg  for  mercy. 

Then  I  tried  to  lose  myself.  Behind  the  grove  which  closed  in 
our  horizon  stretched  a  long  slope,  undulating  towards  a  deep  cut 
below.  With  infinite  pains,  I  surmounted  all  obstacles,  and  gained 
the  road.  How  far,  far  away  from  home  I  felt  !  My  heart  was 
beating  violently.  What  sorrow  this  would  give  to  my  dear 
father  !  Where  should  I  sleep  1  I  should  never  dare  to  ask  shel- 
ter at  a  farm-house,  much  less  lie  down  among  the  bushes,  where 
the  screech-owls  made  a  noise  all  night.  So,  without  further  re- 
flection, I  returned  home. 

Animals  are  happier.  I  wished  to  be  little  Lauret,  the  gold- 
colored  ox,  who  labors  so  patiently,  and  comes  and  goes  all  day 
long.  Or  I  'd  like  to  be  Grisette  or  Brunette,  the  pretty  asses  who 
are  mother's  pets. 

After  all,  who  would  not  like  to  be  a  flower?  However,  a 
flower  lives  but  a  very  little  while  :  you  are  cut  down  as  soon  as 


270 


CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


born.  A  tree  lasts  much  longer.  Yet  what  a  bore  it  must  be  to 
stay  always  in  one  place  !  To  stand  with  one's  foot  buried  in  the 
ground,  —  it  is  too  dreadful ;  the  thought  worried  me  when  I  was 
in  bed,  thinking  things  over. 

I  would  have  been  a  bird,  if  a  good  fairy  had  taken  pity  un  me. 
Birds  are  so  free,  so  happy,  they  sing  all  day  long.  If  I  were  a 
bird,  I  would  come  and  fly  about  our  woods,  and  would  perch  on 
the  roof  of  our  house.  I  would  come  to  see  my  empty  chair,  my 
place  at  table,  and  my  mother  looking  sad  ;  then,  at  my  father's 
hour  for  reading,  alone  in  the  garden,  I  would  fly,  and  perch  on 
his  shoulder,  and  my  father  would  know  me  at  once. 


MEMORIES    OF   CHILD   LIFE. 


271 


m  'ii 


ONE  OF  THE  GREAT  AUTHORS  OF  GERMANY. 

IT  was  in  the  year  1763  that  I  came  into  the  $f&i 
world,  in  the  same  month  that  the  golden  and  '■!'¥%/. 
gray  wagtail,  the  robin-n-dbrrast,  t In-  cram-,  and  "|  ,'T» 
the  red-hammer  came  also ;  and,  in  case  anybody  f /,/>',■% 
wished  to  strew  flowers  on  the  cradle  of  the  new-  <l 
born,  the  spoonwort  and  the  aspen  hung  out  their 
tender  blossoms,  —  on  the  20th  of  March,  in  the 
early  morning.  I  was  born  in  Wunsiedel,  in  the  highlands  of  the 
Fitchtelbirge.  Ah  !  I  am  glad  to  have  been  born  in  thee,  little 
city  of  the  mountains,  whose  tops  look  down  upon  us  like  the  heads 
of  eagles,  and  where  we  can  glance  over  villages  and  mountain 
meadows,  and  drink  health  at  all  thy  fountains  ! 

To  my  great  joy  I  can  call  up  from  my  twelfth  or,  at  farthest, 
my  fourteenth  month  of  age  one  pale  little  remembrance,  like  an 
early  and  frail  snow-drop,  from  the  fresh  soil  of  my  childhood.     I 


272  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

recollect  that  a  scholar  loved  me  much,  and  carried  me  about  in  his 
arms,  and  took  mo  to  a  great  dark  room  and  gave  me  milk  to  drink. 

In  1765  my  father  was  appointed  minister  to  Joditz,  where  I 
was  carried  in  a  girl's  cap  and  petticoat.  The  little  Saale  Eiver, 
born  like  myself  in  the  Fitchtelbirge,  ran  with  me  to  Joditz,  as  it 
afterwards  ran  after  me  to  Hof  when  I  removed  there.  A  small 
brook  traverses  the  little  town,  that  is  crossed  on  a  plank  as  I 
remember.  The  old  castle  and  the  pastor's  house  were  the  two 
principal  buildings.  There  was  a  school-house  right  opposite  the 
parsonage,  into  which  I  was  admitted,  when  big  enough  to  wear 
breeches  and  a  green  taffety  cap.  The  schoolmaster  was  sickly 
and  lean,  but  I  loved  him,  and  watched  anxiously  with  him  as  he 
lay  hid  behind  his  birdcage  placed  in  the  open  window  to  catch 
goldfinches,  or  when  he  spread  a  net  in  the  snow  and  caught  a 
yellow-hammer. 

My  life  in  Joditz  was  very  pleasant,  all  the  four  seasons  were 
full  of  happiness.  I  hardly  know  which  to  tell  of  first,  for  each 
is  a  heavenly  introduction  to  the  next ;  but  I  will  begin  with  winter. 
In  the  cold  morning  my  father  came  down  stairs  and  learned  his 
Sunday  sermon  by  the  window,  and  I  and  my  brother  carried  the 
full  cup  of  coffee  to  him,  —  and  still  more  gladly  carried  it  back 
empty,  for  we  could  pick  out  the  unmelted  sugar  from  the  bottom. 
Out  of  doors,  the  sky  covered  all  things  with  silence,  —  the  brook 
with  .ice,  the  village  roofs  with  snow ;  but  in  our  room  there 
was  warm  life,  —  under  the  stove  was  a  pigeon-house,  on  the  win- 
dows goldfinch-cages ;  on  the  floor  was  the  bull-dog  and  a  pretty 
little  poodle  close  by.  Farther  off,  at  the  other  end  of  the  house, 
was  the  stable,  with  cows  and  pigs  and  hens.  The  threshers  we 
could  hear  in  the  court-yard  beating  out  the  grain. 

In  the  long  twilight  our  father  walked  back  and  forth,  and  we 
trotted  after  him,  creeping  under  his  nightgown,  and  holding  on 
to  his  hands  if  we  could  reach  them.  At  the  sound  of  the  vesper- 
bell  we  stood  in  a  circle  and  chanted  the  old  hymn, 

"Dis  finstre  Nacht  briclit  stark  herein." 
"  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  in." 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  273 

The  evening  chime  in  our  village  was  indeed  the  swan-song  of 
the  day,  the  muffle  of  the  over-loud  heart,  calling  from  toil  and 
noise  to  silence  and  dreams.  Then  the  room  was  lit  up,  and  the 
window-shutters  bolted,  and  we  children  felt  all  safe  behind  them 
when  the  wind  growled  and  grumbled  outside,  like  the  Knecht 
Ruprecht,  or  hobgoblin.  Then  we  could  undress  and  skip  up  and 
down  in  our  long  trailing  nightgowns.  My  father  sat  at  the  long 
table  studying  or  composing  music.  Our  noise  did  not  disturb 
the  inward  melody  to  which  he  listened  as  we  sat  on  the  table  or 
played  under  it. 

Once  a  week  the  old  errand-woman  came  from  Hof  with  fruit  and 
meats  and  pastry-cakes.  Sometimes  the  housemaid  brought  her 
distaff  into  the  common  room  of  an  evening,  and  told  us  stories 
by  the  light  of  a  pine-torch.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  I 
was  sent  to  the  bed  which  I  shared  with  my  father.  He  sat  up  until 
eleven,  and  I  lay  wide  awake,  trembling  for  fear  of  ghosts,  until  he 
joined  me.  For  I  had  heard  my  father  tell  of  spiritual  appear- 
ances, which  he  firmly  believed  he  had  himself  seen,  and  my  im- 
agination filled  the  dark  space  with  them. 

When  the  spring  came,  and  the  snows  melted,  we  who  had  been 
shut  up  in  the  parsonage  court  were  set  free  to  roam  the  fields  and 
meadows.  The  sweet  mornings  sparkled  with  undried  dews.  I 
carried  my  father's  coffee  to  him  in  his  summer-house  in  the  gar- 
den. In  the  evening  we  had  currants  and  raspberries  from  the 
garden  at  our  supper  before  dark.  Then  my  father  sat  and  smoked 
his  pipe  in  the  open  air,  and  we  played  about  him  in  our  night- 
gowns, on  the  grass,  as  the  swallows  did  in  the  air  overhead. 

The  most  beautiful  of  all  summer  birds,  meanwhile,  was  a  tender, 
blue  butterfly,  which,  in  this  beautiful  season,  fluttered  about  me, 
and  was  my  first  love.  This  was  a  blue-eyed  peasant-girl  of  my 
own  age,  with  a  slender  form  and  an  oval  face  somewhat  marked 
with  the  small-pox,  but  with  the  thousand  traits  that,  like  the 
magic  circles  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  take  the  heart  a  prisoner. 
Augustina  dwelt  with  her  brother  Eomer,  a  delicate  youth,  who 
was  known  as  a  good  accountant,  and  as  a  good  singer  in  the 
12*  It 


274  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

choir.  I  played  my  little  romance  in  a  lively  manner,  from  a 
distance,  as  I  sat  in  the  pastor's  pew  in  the  church,  and  she  in  the 
seat  appropriated  to  women,  apparently  near  enough  to  look  at 
each  other  without  being  satisfied.  And  yet  this  was  only  the 
beginning ;  for  when,  at  evening,  she  drove  her  cow  home  from 
the  meadow  pasture,  I  instantly  knew  the  well-remembered  sound 
of  the  cow-bell,  and  flew  to  the  court  wall  to  see  her  pass,  and 
give  her  a  nod  as  she  went  by  ;  then  ran  again  down  to  the  gate- 
way to  speak  to  her,  she  the  nun  without,  and  I  the  monk 
within,  to  thrust  my  hand  through  the  bars  (more  I  durst  not  do, 
on  account  of  the  children  without),  in  which  there  was  some  little 
dainty  sugared  almonds,  or  something  still  more  costly,  that  I  had 
brought  for  her  from  the  city.  Alas  !  I  did  not  arrive  in  many 
summers  three  times  to  such  happiness  as  this.  But  I  was  obliged 
to  devour  all  the  pleasures,  and  almost  all  the  sorrows,  within  my 
own  heart.  My  almonds,  indeed,  did  not  all  fall  upon  stony 
ground,  for  there  grew  out  of  them  a  whole  hanging-garden  in  my 
imagination,  blooming  and  full  of  sweetness,  and  I  used  to  walk 
in  it  for  weeks  together.  The  sound  of  this  cow-bell  remained 
with  me  for  a  long  time,  and  even  now  the  blood  in  my  old  heart 
stirs  when  this  sound  hovers  in  the  air. 

In  the  summer,  I  remember  the  frequent  errands  that  I,  with  a 
little  sack  on  my  back,  made  to  my  grandparents  in  the  city  of 
Hof,  to  bring  meat  and  coffee  and  things  that  could  not  be  had  in 
the  village.  The  two  hours'  walk  led  through  a  wood  where  a  brook 
babbled  over  the  stones.  At  last  the  city  -with  its  two  church- 
towers  was  seen,  with  the  Saale  shining  along  the  level  plain.  I 
remember,  on  my  return  one  summer  afternoon,  watching  the 
sunny  splendor  of  the  mountain-side,  traversed  by  flying  shadows 
of  clouds,  and  how  a  new  and  strange  longing  came  over  me,  of 
mingled  pain  and  pleasure,  —  a  longing  which  knew  not  the  name 
of  its  object,  —  the  awakening  and  thirsting  of  my  whole  nature 
for  the  heavenly  gifts  of  life. 

After  the  first  autumn  threshing  I  used  to  follow  the  traces  of 
the  crows  in  the  woods,  and  the  birds  going  southward  in  long 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  275 

procession,  with  strange  delight.  I  loved  the  screams  of  the  wild 
geese  flying  over  me  in  long  flocks.  In  the  autumn  evenings  the 
father  went  with  me  and  Adam  to  a  pototo-field  lying  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Saale.  One  boy  carried  a  hoe  upon  his  shoulder,  the 
other  a  hand-basket ;  and  while  the  father  dug  as  many  new  potatoes 
as  were  necessary  for  supper,  and  1  gathered  them  from  the  ground 
and  threw  them  into  the  basket,  Adam  gathered  the  best  nuts 
from  the  hazel-bushes.  It  was  not  long  before  Adam  fell  back 
into  the  potato-beds,  and  I  in  my  turn  climbed  the  nut-tree.  Then 
we  returned  home,  satisfied  with  our  nuts  and  potatoes,  and  enli- 
vened by  running  for  an  hour  in  the  free,  invigorating  air ;  every 
one  may  imagine  the  delight  of  returning  home  by  the  light  of 
the  harvest  festivals. 

Wonderfully  fresh  and  green  are  two  other  harvest  flowers,  pre- 
served in  the  chambers  of  my  memory,  and  both  are  indeed  trees. 
One  was  a  full-branched  muscatel  pear-tree  in  the  pastor's  court- 
yard, the  fall  of  whose  splendid  hanging  fruit  the  children  sought 
through  the  whole  autumn  to  hasten ;  but  at  last,  upon  one  of  the 
most  important  days  of  the  season,  the  father  himself  reached  the 
forbidden  fruit  by  means  of  a  ladder,  and  brought  the  sweet 
paradise  down,  as  well  for  the  palates  of  the  whole  family  as  for 
the  cooking-stove. 

The  other,  always  green,  and  yet  more  splendidly  blooming, 
was  a  smaller  tree,  taken  on  St.  Andrew's  evening  from  the  old 
wood,  and  brought  into  the  house,  where  it  was  planted  in  water 
and  soil  in  a  large  pot,  so  that  on  Christmas  night  it  might  have 
its  leaves  green  when  it  was  hung  over  with  gifts  like  fruits  and 
flowers. 

In  my  thirteenth  year  my  father  was  appointed  pastor  of  Swar- 
zenbach,  also  on  the  Saale  River,  a  large  market  town,  and  I  had 
to  leave  Joditz,  dear  even  to  this  day  to  my  heart.  Two  little 
sisters  lie  in  its  graveyard.  My  father  ■  found  there  his  fairest 
Sundays,  and  there  I  first  saw  the  Saale  shining  with  the  morning 
glow  of  my  life. 


276  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


CHARLES  LAMB, 


GENIAL.  ENGLISH    ESSAYIST. 


FROM  my  childhood  I  was  extremely  inquisitive  about  witches 
and  witch-stories.  My  maid,  and  legendary  aunt,  sup- 
plied me  with  good  store.  But  I  shall  mention  the  accident 
which  directed  my  curiosity  originaUjr  into  this  channel.  In  my 
father's  book-closet,  the  "  History  of  the  Bible,"  by  Stackhouse, 
occupied  a  distinguished  station.  The  pictures  with  which  it 
abounds  —  one  of  the  ark,  in  particular,  and  another  of  Solomon's 
Temple,  delineated  with  all  the  fidehty  of  ocular  admeasurement,  as 
if  the  artist  had  been  upon  the  spot  —  attracted  my  childish  atten- 
tion. There  was  a  picture,  too,  of  the  Witch  raising  up  Samuel, 
which  I  wish  that  I  had  never  seen.  Turning  over  the  picture  of 
the  ark  with  too  much  haste,  I  unhappily  made  a  breach  in  its 
ingenious  fabric,  driving  my  inconsiderate  fingers  right  through 
the  two  larger  quadrupeds,  —  the  elephant  and  the  camel,  —  that 
stare  (as  well  they  might)  out  of  the  last  two  windows  next  -the 
steerage  in  that  unique  piece  of  naval  architecture.  The  book  was 
henceforth  locked  up,  and  became  an  interdicted  treasure.  With 
the  book,  the  objections  and  solutions  gradually  cleared  out  of  my 
head,  and  have  seldom  returned  since  in  any  force  to  trouble  me. 

But  there  was  one  impression  which  I  had  imbibed  from  Stack- 
house,  which  no  lock  or  bar  could  shut  out,  and  which  was 
destined  to  try  my  childish  nerves  rather  more  seriously.  That 
detestable  picture  ! 

I  was  dreadfully  alive  to  nervous  terrors,  —  the  night-time, 
solitude,  and  the  dark.  I  never  laid  my  head  on  my  pillow,  I 
suppose,  from  the  fourth  to  the  seventh  or  eighth  year  of  my  life. 
—  so  far  as  memory  serves  in  tilings  so  long  ago,  —  without  an 
assurance,  which  realized  its  own  prophecy,  of  seeing  some  frightful 


MEMORIES   OE  CHILD   LIFE.  "277 

spectre.  Be  old  Stackhouse  then  acquitted  in  part,  if  I  say  that, 
to  his  picture  of  the  Witch  raising  up  Samuel,  (0  that  old  man 
covered  with  a  mantle  !)  I  owe,  not  my  midnight  terrors,  the 
horror  of  my  infancy,  but  the  shape  and  manner  of  their  visitation. 
It  was  he  who  dressed  up  for  me  a  hag  that  nightly  sat  upon 
my  pillow,  —  a  sure  bedfellow,  when  my '  aunt  or  my  maid  was 
far  from  me.  All  day  long,  while  the  book  was  permitted  me,  I 
dreamed  waking  over  his  delineation,  and  at  night  (if  I  may  use  so 
bold  an  expression)  awoke  into  sleep,  and  found  the  vision  true. 
1  durst  not,  even  in  the  daylight,  once  enter  the  chamber  where  I 
slept,  without  my  face  turned  to  the  window,  aversely  from  the 
bed,  where  my  witch-ridden  pillow  was.  Parents  do  not  know 
what  they  do  when  they  leave  tender  babes  alone  to  go  to  sleep  in 
the  dark.  The  feeling  about  for  a  friendly  arm,  the  hoping  for  a 
familar  voice  when  they  awake  screaming,  and  find  none  to  soothe 
them,  —  what  a  terrible  shaking  it  is  to  their  poor  nerves  !  The 
keeping  them  up  till  midnight,  through  candlelight  and  the  un- 
wholesome hours,  as  they  are  called,  would,  I  am  satisfied,  in  a 
medical  point  of  view,  prove  the  better  caution.  That  detestable 
picture,  as  I  have  said,  gave  the  fashion  to  my  dreams,  —  if  dreams 
they  were,  —  for  the  scene  of  them  was  invariably  the  room  in 
wliich  I  lay. 

The  oldest  thing  I  remember  is  Mackery  End,  or  Mackarel 
End,  as  it  is  spelt,  perhaps  more  properly,  in  some  old  maps  of 
Hertfordshire  ,  a  farm-house,  delightfully  situated  within  a  gentle 
walk  from  "Wheathampstead.  I  can  just  remember  having  been 
there,  on  a  visit  to  a  great-aunt,  when  I  was  a  child,  under  the 
care  of  my  sister,  who,  as  I  have  said,  is  older  than  myself  by 
some  ten  years.  I  wish  that  I  could  throw  into  a  heap  the  re- 
mainder of  our  joint  existences,  that  we  might  share  them  in  equal 
division.  But  that  is  impossible.  The  house  was  at  that  time  in 
the  occupation  of  a  substantial  yeoman,  who  had  married  my 
grandmother's  sister.  His  name  was  Gladman.  More  than  forty 
years  had  elapsed  since  the  visit  I  speak  of;  and,  for  the  greater 
portion  of  that  period,  we  had  lost  sight  of  the  other  two  branches 


278  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

also.  Who  or  what  sort  of  persons  inherited  Mackery  End,  — 
kindred  or  strange  folk,  —  we  were  afraid  almost  to  conjecture,  but 
determined  some  day  to  explore. 

"We  made  an  excursion  to  this  place  a  few  summers  ago.  By 
a  somewhat  circuitous  route,  taking  the  noble  park  at  Luton  in 
our  way  from  Saint  Alban's,  we  arrived  at  the  spot  of  our  anxious 
curiosity  about  noon.  The  sight  of  the  old  farm-house,  though 
every  trace  of  it  was  effaced  from  my  recollection,  affected  me  with 
a  pleasure  which  I  had  not  experienced  for  many  a  year.  For 
though  /  had  forgotten  it,  we  had  never  forgotten  being  there 
together,  and  we  had  been  talking  about  Mackery  End  all  our 
lives,  till  memory  on  my  part  became  mocked  with  a  phantom  of 
itself,  and  I  thought  I  knew  the  aspect  of  a  place,  which,  when 
present,  0  how  unlike  it  was  to  that  which  I  had  conjured  up  so 
many  times  instead  of  it  ! 

Still  the  air  breathed  balmily  about  it ;  the  season  was  in  the 
"  heart  of  June,"  and  I  could  say  with  the  poet,  — 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation  ! 

Journeying  northward  lately,  I  could  not  resist  going  some  few 
miles  out  of  my  road  to  look  upon  the  remains  of  an  old  great 
house  with  which  I  had  been  impressed  in  infancy.  I  was  ap- 
prised that  the  owner  of  it  had  lately  pulled  it  down  ;  still  I  had 
a  vague  notion  that  it  could  not  all  have  perished,  that  so  much 
solidity  with  magnificence  could  not  have  been  crushed  all  at  once 
into  the  mere  dust  and  rubbish  which  I  found  it. 

The  work  of  ruin  had  proceeded  with  a  swift  hand,  indeed,  and 
the  demolition  of  a  few  weeks  had  reduced  it  to  —  an  antiquity. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  indistinction  of  everything.  Where  had 
stood  the  great  gates  t  "What  bounded  the  court-yard  ?  Where- 
about did  the  outhouses  begin  ?  A  few  bricks  only  la3r  as  repre- 
sentatives of  that  which  was  so  stately  and  so  spacious. 

Had  I  seen  these  brick-and-mortar  knaves  at  their  process  of 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  279 

destruction,  I  should  have  cried  out  to  them  to  spare  a  plank  at 
least  out  of  the  cheerful  storeroom,  in  whose  hot  window-seat  I 
used  to  sit  and  read  Cowley,  with  the  grass-plot  before,  and  the 
hum  and  flappings  of  that  one  solitary  wasp  that  ever  haunted  it 
about  me,  —  it  is  in  mine  ears  now,  as  oft  as  summer  returns  ;  or 
a  panel  of  the  yellow-room. 

Why,  every  plank  and  panel  of  that  house  for  me  had  magic  in 
it !  The  tapestried  bedrooms,  —  tapestry  so  much  better  than 
painting,  —  not  adorning  merely,  but  peopling,  the  wainscots,  at 
which  childhood  ever  and  anon  would  steal  a  look,  shifting  its 
coverlid  (replaced  as  quickly)  to  exercise  its  tender  courage  in  a. 
momentary  eye-encounter  with  those  stern  bright  visages,  staring 
back  in  return. 

Then,  that  haunted  room  in  which  old  Mrs.  Brattle  died,  where- 
into  I  have  crept,  but  always  in  the  daytime,  with  a  passion  of 
fear ;  and  a  sneaking  curiosity,  terror-tainted,  to  hold  communica- 
tion with  the  past.     How  shall  they  build  it  up  again  ? 

It  was  an  old  deserted  place,  yet  not  so  long  deserted  but  that 
traces  of  the  splendor  of  past  inmates  were  everywhere  apparent. 
Its  furniture  was  still  standing,  even  to  the  tarnished  gilt  leather 
battledores  and  crumbling  feathers  of  shuttlecocks  in  the  nursery, 
which  told  that  children  had  once  played  there.  But  I  was  a 
lonely  child,  and  had  the  range  at  will  of  every  apartment,  knew 
every  nook  and  corner,  wondered  and  worshipped  everywhere. 

The  solitude  of  childhood  is  not  so  much  the  mother  of  thought, 
as  it  is  the  feeder  of  love,  and  silence,  and  admiration.  So  strange 
a  passion  for  the  place  possessed  me  in  those  years,  that  though 
there  lay  —  I  shame  to  say  how  few  roods  distant  from  the  mansion, 
—  half  hid  by  trees,  what  I  judged  some  romantic  lake,  such  was 
the  spell  which  bound  me  to  the  house,  and  such  my  carefulness 
not  to  pass  its  strict  and  proper  precincts,  that  the  idle  waters  lay 
unexplored  for  me  ;  and  not  till  late  in  life,  curiosity  prevailing 
over  elde;  devotion,  I  found,  to  my  astonishment,  a  pretty  brawl- 
ing brook  had  been  the  unknown  lake  of  my  infancy.  Variegated 
views,  extensive  prospects,  —  and  those  at  no  great  distance  from 


280  CHILD  LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

the  house,  —  I  was  told  of  such,  —  what  were  they  to  me,  being 
out  of  the  boundaries  of  my  Eden  i  So  far  from  a  wish  to  roam, 
I  would  have  drawn,  methought,  still  closer  the  fences  of  my 
chosen  prison,  and  have  been  hemmed  in  by  a  yet  securer  cincture 
of  those  excluding  garden  walls.  I  could  have  exclaimed  with  that 
garden-loving  poet,  — 

"  Bind  me,  ye  woodbines,  in  your  twines  ; 
Curl  me  about,  ye  gadding  vines  ; 
And  0,  so  close  your  circles  lace, 
That  I  may  never  leave  this  place  ! 
But,  lest  your  fetters  prove  too  weak, 
Ere  I  your  silken  bondage  break, 
Do  you,  0  brambles  !  chain  me  too, 
And,  courteous  briers,  nail  me  through." 

I  was  here  as  in  a  lonely  temple.  Snug  firesides,  —  the  low- 
built  roof,  —  parlors  ten  feet  by  ten,  —  frugal  boards,  and  all  the 
homeliness  of  home,  —  these  were  the  condition  of  my  birth, 
the  wholesome  soil  which  I  was  planted  in.  Yet,  without  im- 
peachment to  their  tenderest  lessons,  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  had 
glances  of  something  beyond  :  and  to  have  taken,  if  but  a  peep, 
in  childhood,  at  the  contrastina;  accidents  of  a  great  fortune. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  281 


HUGH   MILLER, 

SCOTTISH    GEOLOGIST    AND    AUTHOR. 

I  WAS  born  on  the  tenth  play  of  October,  1802,  in  the  low, 
long  house  built  by  my  great-grandfather. 

My  memory  awoke  early.  I  have  recollections  which  date  sev- 
eral months  before  the  completion  of  rny  third  year ;  but,  like 
those  of  the  golden  age  of  the  world,  they  are  chiefly  of  a  mytho- 
logic  character. 

I  retain  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  joy  which  used  to  light  up 
the  household  on  my  father's  arrival ;  and  how  I  learned  to  dis- 
tinguish for  myself  his  sloop  when  in  the  offing,  by  the  two  slim 
stripes  of  white  that  ran  along  her  sides  and  her  two  square  top- 
sails. 

I  have  my  golden  memories,  too,  of  splendid  toys  that  he  used 
to  bring  home  with  him,  —  among  the  rest,  of  a  magnificent  four- 
wheeled  wagon  of  painted  tin,  drawn  by  four  wooden  horses  and 
a  string ;  and  of  getting  it  into  a  quiet  corner,  immediately  on  its 
being  delivered  over  to  me,  and  there  breaking  up  every  wheel 
and  horse,  and  the  vehicle  itself,  into  their  original  bits,  until  not 
two  of  the  pieces  were  left  sticking  together.  Further,  I  still 
remember  my  disappointment  at  not  finding  something  curious 
within  at  least  the  horses  and  the  wheels ;  and  as  unquestionably 
the  main  enjoyment  derivable  from  such  things  is  to  be  had  in  the 
breaking  of  them,  I  sometimes  wonder  that  our  ingenious  toymen 
do  not  fall  upon  the  way  of  at  once  extending  their  trade,  and 
adding  to  its  philosophy,  by  putting  some  of  their  most  brilliant 
things  where  nature  puts  the  nut-kernel,  —  inside. 

Then  followed  a  dreary  season,  on  which  I  still  look  back  in 
memory  as  on  a  prospect  which,  sunshiny  and  sparkling  for  a 
time,  has  become  suddenly  enveloped  in   cloud  and  storm.       I 


282 


CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 


remember  my  mother's  long  fits  of  weeping,  and  the  general  gloom 
of  the  widowed  household  ;  and  how,  after  she  had  sent  my  two 
little  sisters  to  bed,  and  her  hands  were  set  free  for  the  evening,  she 
used  to  sit  up  late  at  night,  engaged  as  a  seamstress,  in  making 
pieces  of  dress  for  such  of  the  neighbors  as  chose  to  employ  her. 

I  remember  I  used  to  wander  disconsolately  about  the  harbor  at 
this  season,  to  examine  the  vessels  which  had  come  in  during  the 
night ;  and  that  I  oftener  than  once  set  my  mother  a-crying  by 
asking  her  why  the  shipmates  who,  when  my  father  was  alive, 
used  to  stroke  my  head,  and  slip  halfpence  into  my  pockets,  never 


now  took  any  notice  of  me,  or  gave  me  anything.  She  well  knew 
that  the  shipmasters  —  not  an  ungenerous  class  of  men  —  had 
simply  failed  to  recognize  their  old  comrade's  child  ;  but  the 
question  was  only  too  suggestive,  notwithstanding,  of  both  her 
own  loss  and  mine.  I  used,  too,  to  climb,  day  after  day,  a  grassy 
knoll  immediately  behind  my  mother's  house,  that  commands  a 
wide  reach  of  the  Moray  Frith,  and  look  wistfully  out,  long  after 
every  one  else  had  ceased  to  hope,  for  the  sloop  with  the  two 
stripes  of  white  and  the  two  square  topsails.  But  months  and 
years  passed  by,  and  the  white  stripes  and  the  square  topsails  I 
never  saw. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  283 

I  had  been  sent,  previous  to  my  father's  death,  to  a  dame's 
school.  During  my  sixth  year  I  spelled  my  way,  under  the  dame, 
through  the  Shorter  Catechism,  the  Proverbs,  and  the  New  Tes- 
tament, and  then  entered  upon  her  highest  form,  as  a  member  of 
the  Bible  class  ;  but  all  the  while  the  process  of  acquiring  learn- 
ing had  been  a  dark  one,  which  I  slowly  mastered,  with  humble 
confidence  in  the  awful  wisdom  of  the  schoolmistress,  not  know- 
ing whither  it  tended,  when  at  once  my  mind  awoke  to  the 
meaning  of  the  most  delightful  of  all  narratives,  —  the  story  of 
Joseph.  Was  there  ever  such  a  discovery  made  before  1  I  actually 
found  out  for  myself,  that  the  art  of  reading  is  the  art  of  finding 
stories  in  books ;  and  from  that  moment  reading  became  one  of 
the  most  delightful  of  my  amusements. 

I  began  by  getting  into  a  corner  on  the  dismissal  of  the  school, 
and  there  conning  over  to  myself  the  new-found  story  of  Joseph ; 
nor  did  one  perusal  serve  ;  the  other  Scripture  stories  followed,  — ■ 
in  especial,  the  story  of  Samson  and  the  Philistines,  of  David  and 
Goliah,  of  the  prophets  Elijah  and  Elisha ;  and  after  these  came 
the  New  Testament  stories  and  parables. 

Assisted  by  my  uncles,  too,  I  began  to  collect  a  library  in  a  box 
of  birch-bark  about  nine  inches  square,  which  I  found  quite  large 
enough  to  contain  a  great  many  immortal  works,  — "  Jack  the 
Giant-Killer,"  and  "  Jack  and  the  Bean-Stalk, "  and  the  "  Yellow 
Dwarf,"  and  "  Bluebeard,"  and  "  Sinbad  the  Sailor,"  and  "  Beauty 
and  the  Beast,"  and  "  Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful  Lamp,"  with 
several  others  of  resembling  character. 

Old  Homer  wrote  admirably  for  little  folks,  especially  in  the 
Odyssey ;  a  copy  of  which,  in  the  only  true  translation  extant, 
—  for,  judging  from  its  surpassing  interest  and  the  wrath  of 
critics,  such  I  hold  that  of  Pope  to  be,  —  I  found  in  the  house  of 
a  neighbor.  Next  came  the  Iliad  ;  not,  however,  in  a  complete 
copy,  but  represented  by  four  of  the  six  volumes  of  Bernard 
Lintot.  With  what  power,  and  at  how  early  an  age,  true  genius 
impresses !  I  saw,  even  at  this  immature  period,  that  no  other 
writer  could  cast  a  javelin  with  half  the  force  of  Homer.     Tho 


284  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

missiles  wont  whizzing  athwart  his  pages ;  and  I  could  see  the 
momentary  gleam  of  the  steel  ere  it  buried  itself  deep  in  brass 
and  bull-hide. 

I  next  succeeded  in  discovering  for  myself  a  child's  book,  of 
not  less  interest  than  even  the  Iliad,  which  might,  I  was  told,  be 
read  on  Sabbaths,  in  a  magnificent  old  edition  of  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  printed  on  coarse  whity-brown  paper,  and  charged  with 
numerous  woodcuts,  each  of  which  occupied  an  entire  page,  that, 
on  principles  of  economy,  bore  letter-press  on  the  other  side.  And 
such  delightful  prints  as  they  are  !  It  must  have  been  some  such 
volume  that  sat  for  its  portrait  to  Wordsworth,  and  which  he  so 
exquisitely  describes  as 

"  Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts, 
Strange  and  uncouth  ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-kuee'd,  sharp-elbow'd,  and  lean;ankled  too, 
With  long  and  ghastly  shanks,  — forms  which,  once  seen, 
Could  never  be  forgotten." 

I  quitted  the  dame's  school  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth, 
after  mastering  that  grand  acquirement  of  my  life,  —  the  art  of 
holding  converse  with  books ;  and  was  transferred  to  the  grammar 
school  of  the  parish,  at  which  there  attended  at  the  time  about  a 
hundred  and  twenty  boys,  with  a  class  of  about  thirty  individuals 
more,  much  looked  down  upon  by  the  others,  and  not  deemed 
greatly  worth  the  counting,  seeing  that  it  consisted  only  of 
lassies. 

One  morning,  having  the  master's  English  rendering  of  the  day's 
task  well  fixed  in  my  memory,  and  no  book  of  amusement  to  read, 
I  began  gossiping  with  my  nearest  class-fellow,  a  very  tall  boy, 
who  ultimately  shot  up  into  a  lad  of  six  feet  four,  and  who  on 
most  occasions  sat  beside  me,  as  lowest  in  the  form  save  one.  I 
told  him  about  the  tall  Wallace  and  his  exploits  ;  and  so  effectu- 
ally succeeded  in  awakening  his  curiosity,  that  I  had  to  communi- 
cate to  him,  from  beginning  to  end,  every  adventure  recorded  by 
the  blind  minstrel. 

My  story-telling  vocation  once  fairly  ascertained,  there  was,  I 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  285 

found,  no  stopping  in  my  course.  I  had  to  tell  all  the  stories  I  had 
ever  heard  or  read.  The  demand  on  the  part  of  my  class-fellows  was 
great  and  urgent ;  and,  setting  myself  to  try  my  ability  of  original 
production,  I  began  to  dole  out  to  them  long  extempore  biographies, 
which  proved  wonderfully  popular  and  successful.  My  heroes  were 
usually  warriors  like  Wallace,  and  voyagers  like  Gulliver,  and  dwel- 
lers in  desolate  islands  like  Eobinson  Crusoe ;  and  they  had  not 
unfrequently  to  seek  shelter  in  huge  deserted  castles,  abounding  in 
trap-doors  and  secret  passages,  like  that  of  Udolpho.  And  finally, 
after  much  destruction  of  giants  and  wild  beasts,  and  frightful  en- 
counters with  magicians  and  savages,  they  almost  invariably  suc- 
ceeded in  disentombing  hidden  treasures  to  an  enormous  amount,  or 
in  laying  open  gold  mines,  and  then  passed  a  luxurious  old  age,  like 
that  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  at  peace  with  all  mankind,  in  the  midst 
of  confectionery  and  fruits. 

With  all  my  carelessness,  I  continued  to  be  a  sort  of  favorite  with 
the  master  ;  and  when  at  the  general  English  lesson,  he  used  to 
address  to  me  little  quiet  speeches,  vouchsafed  to  no  other  pupil, 
indicative  of  a  certain  literary  ground  common  to  us,  on  which  the 
others  had  not  entered.  "  That,  sir,"  he  has  said,  after  the  class 
had  just  perused,  in  the  school  collection,  a  "  Tatler  "  or  "  Spectator," 
—  "  that,  sir,  is  a  good  paper  ;  it 's  an  Addison  "  ;  or,  "  That 's  one 
of  Steele's,  sir  "  ;  and  on  finding  in  my  copy-book,  on  one  occasion, 
a  page  filled  with  rhymes,  which  I  had  headed  "  Poem  on  Peace," 
he  brought  it  to  his  desk,  and,  after  reading  it  carefully  over, 
called  me  up,  and  with  his  closed  penknife,  which  served  as  a 
pointer,  in  one  hand,  and  the  copy-book  brought  down  to  the  level 
of  my  eyes  in  the  other,  began  his  criticism.  "  That 's  bad  grammar, 
sir,"  he  said,  resting  the  knife-handle  on  one  of  the  lines  ;  "  and 
here  's  an  ill-spelled  word  ;  and  there  's  another ;  and  you  have  not 
at  all  attended  to  the  punctuation  ;  but  the  general  sense  of  the 
piece  is  good,  —  very  good,  indeed,  sir."  And  then  he  added, 
with  a  grim  smile,  "  Care,  sir,  is,  I  dare  say,  as  you  remark,  a  very 
bad  thing  ;  but  you  may  safely  bestow  a  little  more  of  it  on  your 
spelling  and  your  grammar." 


286 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PHOSE. 


WALTER   SCOTT. 


POET,    HISTOHIAX,    AND    NOVELIST    OF    SCOTLAND. 

IT  was  at  Sandy  Knowe.  at  the  home  of  my  fathers  father,  that  I 
had  the  first  knowledge  of  life  :  and  I  recollect  distinctly  that 
my  situation  and  appearance  were  a  little  whimsical.  I  was  lame, 
and  among  the  old  remedies  for  lameness  some  one  had  recom- 
mended that,  as  often  as  a  sheep  was  killed  for  the  use  of  the  fam- 
ily, I  should  he  stripped  and  wrapped  up  in  the  warm  skin  as  it  was 
taken  from  the  carcass  of  the  animal.  In  this  Tartar-like  dress  I 
well  remember  lying  upon  the  floor  of  the  little  parlor  of  the  farm- 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  287 

house,  while  my  grandfather,  an  old  man  with  snowy  hair,  tried  to 
make  me  crawl.  And  I  remember  a  relation  of  ours,  Colonel 
MacDougal,  joining  with  him  to  excite  and  amuse  me.  I  recollect 
his  old  military  dress,  his  small  cocked  hat,  deeply  laced,  em- 
broidered scarlet  waistcoat,  light-colored  coat,  and  milk-white  locks, 
as  he  knelt  on  the  ground  before  me,  and  dragged  his  watch  along 
the  carpet  to  make  me  follow  it.  This  must  have  happened  about 
my  third  year,  for  both  the  old  men  died  soon  after.  My  grand- 
mother continued  for  some  years  to  take  charge  of  the  farm,  assisted 
by  my  uncle  Thomas  Scott.  This  was  during  the  American  war, 
and  I  remember  being  as  anxious  on  my  uncle's  weekly  visits  (for 
we  had  no  news  at  another  time)  to  hear  of  the  defeat  of  Wash- 
ington, as  if  I  had  some  personal  cause  for  hating  him.  I  got  a 
strange  prejudice  in  favor  of  the  Stuart  family  from  the  songs  and 
tales  I  heard  about  them.  One  or  two  of  my  own  relations  had 
been  put  to  death  after  the  battle  of  Culloden,  and  the  husband 
of  one  of  my  aunts  used  to  tell  me  that  he  was  present  at  their 
execution.  My  grandmother  used  to  tell  me  many  a  tale  of  Border 
chiefs,  like  Watt  of  Harden,  Wight  Willie  of  Aikwood,  Jamie 
Telfer  of  the  fair  Dodhead.  My  kind  aunt,  Miss  Janet  Scott, 
whose  memory  will  always  be  dear  to  me,  used  to  read  to  me  with 
great  patience  until  I  could  repeat  long  passages  by  heart.  I  learned 
the  old  ballad  of  Hardyknute,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  our  almost 
only  visitor,  Dr.  Duncan,  the  worthy  clergyman  of  the  parish,  who 
had  no  patience  to  have  his  sober  chat  disturbed  by  my  shouting 
forth  this  ditty.  Methinks  I  see  now  his  tall,  emaciated  figure, 
legs  cased  in  clasped  gambadoes,  and  his  very  long  face,  and  hear 
him  exclaim,  "  One  might  as  well  speak  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon 
as  where  that  child  is  !  " 

I  was  in  my  fourth  year  when  my  father  was  told  that  the 
waters  of  Bath  might  be  of  some  advantage  to  my  lameness.  My 
kind  aunt,  though  so  retiring  in  habits  as  to  make  such  a  journey 
anything  but  pleasure  or  amusement,  undertook  to  go  with  me  to 
the  wells,  as  readily  as  if  she  expected  all  the  delight  the  prospect 
of  a  watering-place  held  out  to  its  most  impatient  visitors.     My 


28S  CHILD  LIFE  IN  I'llOSE. 

health  was  by  this  time  a  good  deal  better  from  the  country  air  at 
my  grandmother's.  When  the  day  was  fine,  I  was  carried  out  and 
laid  beside  the  old  shepherd  among  the  crags  and  rocks,  around 
which  he  fed  his  sheep.  Childish  impatience  inclined  me  to  strug- 
gle with  my  lameness,  and  I  began  by  degrees  to  stand,  walk,  and 
even  run. 

I  lived  at  Bath  a  year  without  much  advantage  to  my  lameness. 
The  beauties  of  the  Parade,  with  the  river  Avon  winding  around 
it,  and  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  from  the  opposite  hills,  are  warm 
in  my  recollection,  and  are  only  exceeded  by  the  splendors  of  a 
toy-shop  near  the  orange  grove.  I  was  afraid  of  the  statues  in  the 
old  abbey  church,  and  looked  with  horror  upon  the  image  of  Jacob's 
ladder  with  its  angels. 

My  mother  joined  to  a  light  and  happy  temper  of  mind  a  strong 
turn  for  poetry  and  works  of  imagination.  She  was  sincerely 
devout,  but  her  religion,  as  became  her  sex,  was  of  a  cast  less 
severe  than  my  father's.  My  hours  of  leisure  from  school  study 
were  spent  in  reading  with  her  Pope's  translation  of  Homer,  which, 
with  a  few  ballads  and  the  songs  of  Allan  Ramsay,  was  the  first 
poetry  I  possessed.  My  acquaintance  with  English  literature 
gradually  extended  itself.  In  the  intervals  of  my  school  hours  I 
read  with  avidity  such  books  of  history  or  poetry  or  voyages  and 
travels  as  chance  presented,  not  forgetting  fairy-tales  and  Eastern 
stories  and  romances.  I  found  in  my  mother's  dressing- room 
(where  I  slept  at  one  time)  some  odd  volumes  of  Shakespeare,  nor 
can  I  forget  the  rapture  with  which  I  sat  up  in  my  shirt  reading 
them  by  the  firelight. 

In  my  thirteenth  year  I  first  became  acquainted  with  Bishop 
Percy's  "Eeliques  of  Ancient  Poetry."  As  I  had  been  from  infancy 
devoted  to  legendary  lore  of  this  nature,  and  only  reluctantly  with- 
drew my  attention,  from  the  scarcity  of  materials  and  the  rudeness 
of  those  which  I  possessed,  it  may  be  imagined,  but  cannot  be 
described,  with  what  delight  I  saw  pieces  of  the  same  kind  which 
had  amused  my  childhood,  and  still  continued  in  secret  the  Deli- 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  289 

lahs  of  my  imagination,  considered  as  the  subject  of  sober  research, 
grave  commentary,  and  apt  illustration,  by  an  editor  who  showed 
his  poetical  genius  was  capable  of  emulating  the  best  qualities  of 
what'  his  pious  labor  preserved.  1  remember  well  the  spot  where 
I  read  these  volumes  for  the  first  time.  It  was  beneath  a  huge 
platanus-tree,  in  the  ruins  of  what  had  been  intended  for  an  old- 
fashioned  arbor  in  the  garden  adjoining  the  house.  The  summer 
day  sped  onward  so  fast  that,  notwithstanding  the  sharp  appetite 
of  thirteen,  I  forgot  the  hour  of  dinner,  was  sought  for  with 
anxiety,  and  was  found  still  entranced  in  my  intellectual  banquet. 
To  read  and  to  remember  was  in  this  instance  the  same  thing,  and 
henceforth  I  overwhelmed  my  schoolfellows,  and  all  who  would 
hearken  to  me,  with  tragical  recitations  from  the  ballads  of  Bishop 
Percy.  The  first  time,  too,  I  could  scrape  a  few  shillings  together, 
which  were  not  common  occurrences  with  me,  I  bought  unto  my- 
self a  copy  of  these  beloved  volumes ;  nor  do  I  believe  I  ever 
read  a  book  half  so  frequently  or  with  half  the  enthusiasm. 

To  this  period  also  I  can  trace  distinctly  the  awaking  of  that 
delightful  feeling  for  the  beauties  of  natural  objects  which  has 
never  since  deserted  me.  The  neighborhood  of  Kelso,  the  most 
beautiful,  if  not  the  most  romantic,  village  in  Scotland,  is  eminently 
calculated  to  awaken  these  ideas.  It  presents  objects,  not  only 
grand  in  themselves,  but  venerable  from  their  association.  The 
meeting  of  two  superb  rivers,  the  Tweed  and  the  Teviot,  both  re- 
nowned in  song ;  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey ;  the  more 
distant  vestiges  of  Roxburgh  Castle ;  the  modern  mansion  of 
Fleurs,  which  is  so  situated  as  to  combine  the  ideas  of  ancient 
baronial  grandeur  with  those  of  modern  taste,  —  are  in  themselves 
objects  of  the  first  class  ;  yet  are  so  mixed,  united,  and  melted 
among  a  thousand  other  beauties  of  a  less  prominent  description, 
that  they  harmonize  into  one  general  picture,  and  please  rather  by 
unison  than  by  concord. 


13 


■njlj  C1IILV  LIFE  IN  MUSE. 


FEEDEEIC   DOUGLASS, 

THE    SLAVE-BOY    OF    MARYLAND,    NOW    ONE   OF    THE    ABLEST    CITIZENS 
AND    MOST    ELOQUENT    ORATORS    OF    THE    UNITED    STATES. 

I  WAS  born  in  what  is  called  Tuckahoe,  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  Maryland,  a  worn-out,  desolate,  sandy  region.  Decay  and 
ruin  are  everywhere  visible,  and  the  thin  population  of  the  place 
would  have  quitted  it  long  ago,  but  for  the  Choptauk  Eiver,  which 
runs  through,  from  which  they  take  abundance  of  shad  and  her- 
ring, and  plenty  of  fever  and  ague.  My  first  experience  of  life 
began  in  the  family  of  my  grandparents.  The  house  was  built  of 
logs,  clay,  and  straw.  A  few  rough  fence-rails  thrown  loosely  over 
the  rafters  answered  the  purpose  of  floors,  ceilings,  and  bedsteads. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  I  learned  that  this  house  was  not  my 
grandparents',  but  belonged  to  a  mysterious  personage  who  was 
spoken  of  as  "  Old  Master "  ;  nay,  that  my  grandmother  and  her 
children  and  grandchildren,  myself  among  them,  all  belonged  to 
this  dreadful  personage,  who  would  only  suffer  me  to  live  a  few 
years  with  my  grandmother,  and  when  I  was  big  enough  would 
carry  me  off  to  work  on  his  plantation. 

The  absolute  power  of  this  distant  Old  Master  had  touched 
my  young  spirit  with  but  the  point  of  its  cold  cruel  iron,  yet  it 
left  me  something  to  brood  over.  The  thought  of  being  separated 
from  my  grandmother,  seldom  or  never  to  see  her  again,  haunted 
me.  I  dreaded  the  idea  of  going  to  live  with  that  strange  Old 
Master  whose  name  I  never  heard  mentioned  with  affection,  but 
always  wTith  fear.  My  grandmother  !  my  grandmother !  and  the 
little  hut  and  the  joyous  circle  under  her  care,  but  especially  site, 
who  made  us  sorry  when  she  left  us  but  for  an  hour,  and  glad  on 
her  return,  —  how  could  we  leave  her  and  the  good  old  home  ! 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD  LIFE.  291 

But  the  sorrows  of  childhood,  like  the  pleasures  of  after-life,  are 
transient.  The  first  seven  or  eight  years  of  the  slave-boy's  life  are 
as  full  of  content  as  those  of  the  most  favored  white  children  of 
the  slaveholder.  The  slave-boy  escapes  many  troubles  which  vex 
his  white  brother.  He  is  never  lectured  for  improprieties  of  be- 
havior. He  is  never  chided  for  handling  his  little  knife  and  fork 
improperly  or  awkwardly,  for  he  uses  none.  He  is  never  scolded 
for  soiling  the  table-cloth,  for  he  takes  his  meals  on  the  clay  floor. 
He  never  has  the  misfortune,  in  his  games  or  sports,  of  soiling  or 
tearing  his  clothes,  for  he  has  almost  none  to  soil  or  tear.  He  is 
never  expected  to  act  like  a  nice  little  gentleman,  for  he  is  only  a 
rude  little  slave. 

Thus,  freed  from  all  restraint,  the  slave-boy  can  be,  in  his  life 
and  conduct,  a  genuine  boy,  doing  whatever  his  boyish  nature 
suggests  ;  enacting,  by  turns,  all  the  strange  antics  and  freaks 
of  horses,  dogs,  pigs,  and  barn-door  fowls,  without  in  any  manner 
compromising  his  dignity  or  incurring  reproach  of  any  sort.  He 
literally  runs  wild  ;  has  no  pretty  little  verses  to  learn  in  the  nur- 
sery ;  no  nice  little  speeches  to  make  for  aunts,  uncles,  or  cousins, 
to  show  how  smart  he  is  ;  and,  if  he  can  only  manage  to  keep  out 
of  the  way  of  the  heavy  feet  and  fists  of  the  older  slave-boys,  he 
may  trot  on,  in  his  joyous  and  roguish  tricks,  as  happy  as  any 
little  heathen  under  the  palm-trees  of  Africa. 

To  be  sure,  he  is  occasionally  reminded,  when  he  stumbles  in 
the  way  of  his  master,  —  and  this  he  early  learns  to  avoid,  —  that 
he  is  eating  his  white  bread,  and  that  he  will  be  made  to  see 
sights  by  and  by.  The  threat  is  soon  forgotten,  the  shadow 
soon  passes,  and  our  sable  boy  continues  to  roll  in  the  dust,  or 
play  in  the  mud,  as  best  suits  him,  and  in  the  veriest  freedom.  If 
he  feels  uncomfortable,  from  mud  or  from  dust,  the  coast  is  clear ; 
he  can  plunge  into  the  river  or  the  pond,  without  the  ceremony  of 
undressing  or  the  fear  of  wetting  his  clothes  ;  his  little  tow-linen 
shirt  —  for  that  is  all  he  has  on  —  is  easily  dried  ;  and  it  needed 
washing  as  much  as  did  his  skin.  His  food  is  of  the  coarsest 
kind,  consisting  for  the  most  part  of  corn-meal  mush,  which  often 


2<J2  CHILD   LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

finds  its  way  from  the  wooden  tray  to  his  mouth  in  an  oyster-shell. 
His  days,  when  the  weather  is  warm,  are  spent  in  the  pure,  open 
air  and  in  the  bright  sunshine.  He  eats  no  candies  ;  gets  no 
lumps  of  loaf-sugar  ;  always  relishes  his  food  ;  cries  but  little,  for 
nobody  cares  for  his  crying ;  loams  to  esteem  his  bruises  but 
slight,  because  others  so  think  tliem. 

In  a  word,  he  is,  for  the  most  part  of  the  first  eight  years  of  his 
life,  a  spirited,  joyous,  uproarious,  and  happy  boy,  upon  whom 
troubles  fall  only  like  water  on  a  duck's  back.  And  such  a  boy,  so 
far  as  I  can  now  remember,  was  the  boy  whose  life  in  slavery  I 
am  now  telling. 

I  gradually  learned  that  the  plantation  of  Old  Master  was 
on  the  river  Wye,  twelve  miles  from  Tuckahoe.  About  this 
place  and  about  that  queer  Old  Master,  who  must  be  something 
more  than  man  and  something  worse  than  an  angel,  I  was  eager  to 
know  all  that  could  be  known.  Unhappily,  all  that  I  found  out 
only  increased  my  dread  of  being  carried  thither.  The  fact  is, 
such  was  my  dread  of  leaving  the  little  cabin,  that  I  wished  to 
remain  little  forever ;  for  I  knew,  the  taller  I  grew,  the  shorter  my 
stay.  The  old  cabin,  with  its  rail  floor  and  rail  bedsteads  up 
stairs,  and  its  clay  floor  down  stairs,  and  its  dirt  chimney  and 
windowless  sides,  and  that  most  curious  piece  of  workmanship  of 
all  the  rest,  the  ladder  stairwa}',  and  the  hole  curiously  dug  in 
front  of  the  fireplace,  beneath  which  grandmammy  placed  the 
sweet  potatoes  to  keep  them  from  the  frost,  was  MY  home,  —  the 
only  home  I  ever  had  ;  and  I  loved  it,  and  all  connected  with  it. 
The  old  fences  around  it,  and  the  stumps  in  the  edge  of  the  woods 
near  it,  and  the  squirrels  that  ran,  skipped,  and  played  upon  them, 
were  objects  of  interest  and  affection.  There,  too,  right  at  the 
side  of  the  hut,  stood  the  old  well,  with  its  stately  and  skyward- 
pointing  beam,  so  aptly  placed  between  the  limbs  of  what  had 
once  been  a  tree,  and  so  nicely  balanced,  that  I  could  move  it  up 
and  down  with  only  one  hand,  and  could  get  a  drink  myself  with- 
out calling  for  help.  Where  else  in  the  world  could  such  a  well 
be   found,  and  where   could   such   another  home   be   met  with  ? 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  293 

Down  in  a  little  valley,  not  far  from  grandmamma's  cabin,  stood  a 
mill,  where  the  people  came  often,  in  large  numbers,  to  get  their 
corn  ground.  It  was  a  water-mill ;  and  I  never  shall  be  able  to 
'tell  the  many  things  thought  and  felt  while  I  sat  on  the  bank 
and  watched  that  mill,  and  the  turning  of  its  ponderous  wheel. 
The  mill-pond,  too,  had  its  charms  ;  and  with  my  pin-hook  and 
thread  line  I  could  get  nibbles,  if  I  could  catch  no  fish.  But,  in 
all  my  sports  and  plays,  and  in  spite  of  them,  there  would,  occa- 
sionally, come  the  painful  foreboding  that  I  was  not  long  to  re- 
main there,  and  that  I  must  soon  be  called  away  to  the  home  of 
Old  Master. 

I  was  a  slave,  —  born  a  slave ;  and  though  the  fact  was  strange 
to  me,  it  conveyed  to  my  mind  a  sense  of  my  entire  dependence 
on  the  will  of  somebody  I  had  never  seen  ;  and,  from  some  cause 
or  other,  I  had  been  made  to  fear  this  Somebody  above  all  else  on 
earth.  Born  for  another's  benefit,  as  the  firstling  of  the  cabin 
flock  I  was  soon  to  be  selected  as  a  meet  offering  to  the  fearful 
and  inexorable  Old  Master,  whose  huge  image  on  so  many  occa- 
sions haunted  my  childhood's  imagination.  When  the  time  of  my 
departure  was  decided  upon,  my  grandmother,  knowing  my  fears, 
and  in  pity  for  them,  kindly  kept  me  ignorant  of  the  dreaded 
event  about  to  happen.  Up  to  the  morning  (a  beautiful  summer 
morning)  when  we  were  to  start,  and,  indeed,  during  the  whole 
journey,  —  a  journey  which,  child  as  I  was,  I  remember  as  well  as 
if  it  were  yesterday,  —  she  kept  the  sad  fact  hidden  from  me. 
This  reserve  was  necessary,  for,  could  I  have  known  all,  I  should 
have  given  grandmother  some  trouble  in  getting  me  started.  As 
it  was,  I  was  helpless,  and  she  —  dear  woman  !  —  led  me  along 
by  the  hand,  resisting,  with  the  reserve  and  solemnity  of  a  priest- 
ess, all  my  inquiring  looks  to  the  last. 

The  distance  from  Tuckahoe  to  Wye  Biver,  where  Old  Master 
lived,  was  full  twelve  miles,  and  the  walk  was  quite  a  severe 
test  of  the  endurance  of  my  young  legs.  The  journey  would  have 
proved  too  hard  for  me,  but  that  my  dear  old  grandmother  — 
blessings  on  her  memory  !  —  afforded  occasional  relief  by  "  toting  " 


294  CHILD  LIFE  IN  PROSE. 

me  on  her  shoulder.  My  grandmother,  though  old  in  years,  —  as 
was  evident  from  more  than  one  gray  hair,  which  peeped  from 
between  the  ample  and  graceful  folds  of  her  newly-ironed  bandanna 
turban,  —  was  marvellously  straight  in  figure,  elastic,  and  muscular. 
I  seemed  hardly  to  be  a  burden  to  her.  .She  would  have  "  toteil " 
me  farther,  but  that  I  felt  myself  too  much  of  a  man  to  allow  it, 
and  insisted  on  walking.  Releasing  dear  grandmamma  from  car- 
rying me  did  not  make  me  altogether  independent  of  her,  when 
we  happened  to  pass  through  portions  of  the  sombre  woods  which 
lay  between  Tuckahoe  and  Wye  River.  She  often  found  me 
increasing  the  energy  of  my  grip,  aud  holding  her  clothing,  lest 
something  should  come  out  of  the  woods  and  eat  me  up.  Several 
old  logs  aud  stumps  imposed  upon  me,  and  got  themselves  taken 
for  wild  beasts.  I  could  see  their  legs,  eyes,  and  ears  till  I  got 
close  enough  to  them  to  know  that  the  eyes  were  knots,  washed 
white  with  rain,  and  the  legs  were  broken  boughs,  and  the  ears 
only  fungous  growths  on  the  bark. 

As  the  day  went  on  the  heat  grew ;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
afternoon  that  we  reached  the  much-dreaded  end  of  the  journey. 
I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  children  of  many  colors, 
—  black,  brown,  copper-colored,  and  nearly  white.  I  had  not  seen 
so  many  children  before.  Great  houses  loomed  up  in  different 
directions,  and  a  great  many  men  and  women  were  at  work  in  the 
fields.  All  this  hurry,  noise,  and  singing  was  very  different  from 
the  stillness  of  Tuckahoe.  As  a  new-comer,  I  was  an  object  of 
special  interest  ;  and,  after  laughing  and  yelling  around  me,  and 
playing  all  sorts  of  wild  tricks,  the  children  asked  me  to  go  out  and 
play  with  them.  This  I  refused  to  do,  preferring  to  stay  with 
grandmamma.  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  our  being  there  boded 
no  good  to  me.  Grandmamma  looked  sad.  She  was  soon  to  lose 
another  object  of  affection,  as  she  had  lost  many  before.  I  knew 
she  was  unhappy,  and  the  shadow  fell  on  me,  though  I  knew  not 
the  cause. 

All  suspense,  however,  must  have  an  end,  and  the  end  of  mine 
was  at  hand.     Affectionately  patting  me  on  the  head,  and  telling 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILD   LIFE.  295 

me  to  be  a  good  boy,  grandmamma  bade  rne  to  go  and  play  with 
the  little  children.  "  They  are  kin  to  you,"  said  she  ;  "  go  and 
play  with  them."  Among  a  number  of  cousins  were  Phil,  Tom, 
Steve,  and  Jerry,  Nance  and  Betty. 

Grandmother  pointed  out  my  brother  and  sisters  who  stood  in 
the  group.  I  had  never  seen  brother  nor  sisters  before  ;  and 
though  I  had  sometimes  heard  of  them,  and  felt  a  curious  interest 
in  them,  I  really  did  not  understand  what  they  were  to  me,  or  I 
to  them.  We  were  brothers  and  sisters,  but  what  of  that  ?  Why 
should  they  be  attached  to  me,  or  I  to  them  1  Brothers  and 
sisters  we  were  by  blood,  but  slavery  had  made  us  strangers.  I 
heard  the  words  "  brother"  and  "sisters,"  and  knew  they  must  mean 
something ;  but  slavery  had  robbed  these  terms  of  their  true  mean- 
ing. The  experience  through  which  I  was  passing,  they  had 
passed  through  before.  They  had  already  learned  the  mysteries  of 
Old  Master's  home,  and  they  seemed  to  look  upon  me  with  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  compassion  ;  but  iny  heart  clave  to  my  grandmother. 
Think  it  not  strange  that  so  little  sympathy  of  feeling  existed 
between  us.  The  conditions  of  brotherly  and  sisterly  feeling 
were  wanting  ;  we  had  never  nestled  and  played  together.  My 
poor  mother,  like  many  other  slave-women,  had  many  children, 
but  no  family  !  The  domestic  hearth,  with  its  holy  lessons  and 
precious  endearments,  is  abolished  in  the  case  of  a  slave-mother 
and  her  children.  "  Little  children,  love  one  another,"  are  words 
seldom  heard  in  a  slave-cabin. 

I  really  wanted  to  play  with  my  brother  and  sisters,  but  they 
were  strangers  to  me,  and  I  was  full  of  fear  that  grandmother 
might  leave  ■without  taking  me  with  her.  Entreated  to  do  so, 
however,  and  that,  too,  by  my  dear  grandmother,  I  went  to  the 
back  part  of  the  house,  to  play  with  tbem  and  the  other  children. 
Play,  however,  I  did  not,  but  stood  with  my  back  against  the 
wall,  witnessing  the  mirth  of  the  others.  At  last,  while  standing 
there,  one  of  the  children,  who  had  been  in  the  kitchen,  ran  up  to 
me,  in  a  sort  of  roguish  glee,  exclaiming,  "  Fed,  Fed  !  grand- 
mammy   gone  !    grandmammy  gone  !  "     I    could    not   believe   it  ; 


296 


CHILD  LIFE  IN  PMOSE. 


yet,  fearing  the  worst,  I  ran  into  the  kitchen,  to  see  for  myself, 
and  found  it  even  so.  Grandmamma  had  indeed  gone,  and  was 
now  far  away,  clean  out  of  sight.  I  need  not  tell  all  that  hap- 
pened now.  Almost  heartbroken  at  the  discovery,  I  fell  upon 
the  ground,  and  wept  a  boy's  bitter  tears,  refusing  to  be  com- 
forted. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


297 


CHAELES   DICKONS, 

FIRST    NOVELIST    OF    THE    PERIOD. 


I  HAVE  been  looking  on,   this  evening,  at  a  merry  company 
of    children    assembled    round    that    pretty  German  toy,    a 
Christmas  tree. 


Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only  person  in  the 
house  awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn  hack,  by  a  fascination  which 

13* 


298  CHILD  LIFE  IS  rilOSE. 

I  do  not  care  to  resist,  to  mj'  own  childhood.  Straight  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  cramped  in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no 
encircling  walls  or  soon-reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree  arises ; 
and,  looking  up  into  the  dreamy  brightness  of  its  top,  —  for  I 
observe  in  this  tree  the  singular  property  that  it  appears  to  grow 
downward  towards  the  earth, —  I  look  into  my  youngest  Christmas 
recollections. 

All  toys  at  first,  I  find.  But  upon  the  branches  of  the  tree, 
lower  down,  how  thick  the  books  begin  to  hang  !  Thin  books,  in 
themselves,  at  first,  but  many  of  them,  with  deliriously  smooth 
covers  of  bright  red  or  green.  "What  fat  black  letters  to  begin 
with! 

"  A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a  frog."  Of  course  he  was.  He 
was  an  apple-pie  also,  and  there  he  is !  He  was  a  good  many 
things  in  his  time,  was  A,  and  so  were  most  of  his  friends,  except 
X,  who  had  so  little  versatility  that  I  never  knew  him  to  get 
beyond  Xerxes  or  Xantippe  :  like  Y.  who  was  always  confined 
to  a  yacht  or  a  yew-tree  ;  and  Z,  condemned  forever  to  be  a  zebra 
or  a  zany. 

But  now  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and  becomes  a  bean-stalk. 
—  the  marvellous  bean-stalk  by  which  Jack  climbed  up  to  the 
giant's  house.  Jack, — how  noble,  with  his  sword  of  sharpness 
and  his  shoes  of  swiftness  ! 

Good  for  Cliristmas-time  is  the  ruddy  color  of  the  cloak  in  which, 
the  tree  making  a  forest  of  itself  for  her  to  trip  through  with 
her  basket,  Little  Bed-Biding-Hood  comes  to  me  one  Christmas 
eve,  to  give  me  information  of  the  cruelty  and  treachery  of  that 
dissembling  wolf  who  ate  her  grandmother,  without  making  any 
impression  on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate  her,  after  making  that 
ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth.  She  was  my  first  love.  I  felt 
that  if  I  could  have  married  Little  Bed-Biding  Hood,  I  should 
have  known  perfect  bliss.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  look  out  the  wolf  in  the  Xoah's  Ark  there, 
and  put  him  late  in  the  procession  on  the  table,  as  a  monster  who 
was  to  be  degraded. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE. 


299 


0  the  wonderful  Noah's  Ark  !  It  was  not  found  seaworthy 
when  put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the  animals  were  crammed  in  at 
the  roof,  and  needed  to  have  their  legs  well  shaken  down  before  they 
eould  be  got  in  even  there  ;  and  then  ten  to  one  but  they  began 


300  CHILD   LIFE  IX  PROSE. 

to  tumble  out  at  Uie  door,  which  was  but  imperfectly  fastened  with 
u  wire  latch  ;  but  what  was  that  against  it 't 

Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or  two  smaller  than  the  elephant ; 
the  la  ly-hird,  the  butterfly,  — all  triumphs  of  art !  Consider  the 
goose,  whoso  feet  were  so  small,  and  whose  balance  was  bo  in- 
different that  lie  usually  tumbled  forward  and  knocked  down  all 
the  animal  creation  !  consider  Noah  and  his  family,  like  idiot  : 
tobacco-stoppers  ;  and  how  the  leopard  stuck  to  warm  little  fingers; 
and  bow  the  tails  of  the  larger  animals  used  gradually  to  resolve 
themselves  into  frayed  bits  of  string. 

Hush  !  Again  a  forest,  and  somebody  up  in  a  tree,  —  not  Robin 
Hood,  not  Valentine,  not  the  Yellow  Dwarf,  —  I  have  passed  him 
and  all  Mother  Bunch's  wonders  without  mention,  —  but  an 
Eastern  king  with  a  glittering  scymitar  and  turban.  It  is  the 
setting-in  of  the  bright  Arabian  Nights. 

O,  now  all  common  things  become  uncommon  and  enchanted 
to  me  !  All  lamps  are  wonderful !  all  rings  are  talismans  !  Com- 
mon flower-pots  are  full  of  treasure,  with  a  little  earth  scattered 
on  the  top  ;  trees  are  for  Ali  Baba  to  hide  in  ;  beefsteaks  are  to 
throw  down  into  the  Valley  of  Diamonds,  that  the  precious  stones 
may  stick  to  them,  and  lie  carried  by  the  eagles  to  their  nests, 
whence  the  traders,  with  loud  cries,  will  scare  them.  All  the 
dates  imported  come  from  the  same  tree  as  that  unlucky  one,  with 
whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked  out  the  eye  of  the  genii's  in- 
visible son.  All  olives  are  of  the  same  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit 
concerning  which  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard  the 
boy  conduct  the  fictitious  trial  of  the  fraudulent  olive-merchant. 
Yes,  on  every  object  that  I  recognize  among  those  upper  branches 
of  my  Christmas  tree  I  see  this  fairy  light ! 

But  hark  !  the  Waits  are  playing,  and  they  break  my  childish 
sleep !  What  images  do  I  associate  with  the  Christmas  music  as  I 
see  them  set  forth  on  the  Christmas  tree !  Known  before  all  the 
others,  keeping  far  apart  from  all  the  others,  they  gather  round  my 
little  bed.  An  angel,  speaking  to  a  group  of  shepherds  in  a  held ; 
some  travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  following  a  star  ;  a  baby  in  a 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILD  LIFE.  30 1 

manger  ;  a  child  in  a  spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men  ;  a 
solemn  figure  with  a  mild  and  beautiful  face,  raising  a  dead  girl  by 
the  hand ;  again,  near  a  city  gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a  widow, 
on  his  bier,  to  life  ;  a  crowd  of  people  looking  through  the  opened 
roof  of  a  chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down  a  sick  person  on  a 
bed,  with  ropes  ;  the  same,  in  a  tempest,  walking  on  the  waters  in  a 
ship  ;  again,  on  a  sea-shore,  teaching  a  great  multitude  ;  again,  with 
a  child  upon  his  knee,  and  other  children  around ;  again,  restoring 
sight  to  the  blind,  speech  to  the  dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health 
to  the  "sick,  strength  to  the  lame,  knowledge  to  the  ignorant; 
again,  dying  upon  a  cross,  watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a  darkness 
coming  on,  the  earth  beginning  to  shake,  and  only  one  voice 
heard,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !  " 

Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas  time,  still  let  the 
benignant  figure  of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged  !  In  every 
cheerful  image  and  suggestion  that  the  season  brings,  may  the 
bright  star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof  be  the  star  of  all  the 
Christian  world ! 

A  moment's  pause,  0  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower  boughs 
are  dark  to  me  yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more.  I  know  there  are 
blank  spaces  on  thy  branches,  where  eyes  that  I  have  loved  have 
shone  and  smiled,  from  which  they  are  departed.  But,  far  above, 
I  see  the  Raiser  of  the  dead  girl  and  the  widow's  son,  —  and  God 
is  good ! 


THE    END. 


■■W 

■ 


